


Deep in Your Bones I Dwell (And There My Soul Remains)

by sarahbeniel



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Natasha Romanov (background), Bucky-typical unpleasantness (loss of body autonomy), Canon Divergence - Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon Divergence - Post-Thor (2011), Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, Drinking to Cope, Dubious consent (brief) in Ch. 12, F/M, Gay Sam Wilson (background), Gun Violence, Hybrid Fraction-MCU Clint Barton, Involuntarily Predatory Behavior, Lies that Hurt People, Making Love, Memory Loss, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mugging, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Darcy Lewis, Protective Steve Rogers, SHIELDRA, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soultember 2019, Stalking, Swearing, The Good Guys Aren't Always Nice, Threats of Violence, Unethical Therapist, WinterShock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-10-21 14:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 178,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahbeniel/pseuds/sarahbeniel
Summary: There were two super-soldiers made in the mid-twentieth century, and both of them were lost.  Now, in the early years of the twenty-first, both of them are found.  Captain America is not the first.Wintershock.  Soulmate AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> Typical for most of my stories, the sexual content falls in a grey area between M and E. 
> 
> SHIELD agents in this universe use real guns, with real bullets-- not that ICER crap-- just because that seems more realistic to me.  
  
The events in this story span, roughly, from the end of the first Thor, to the end of CA:TWS. I use Agents of SHIELD characters (Coulson and May), but do not stick to the Agents timeline whatsoever (Coulson and May are together from the get-go here.) 
> 
> Thank you for reading my story, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Thanks to chocogypto and her hubs for reading and finding my errors! any remaining errors are my own.)

_May, 2010_  
_Undisclosed location, Kazakhstan_  
_-11ºC. Light Flurries._

* * *

“_Fuck, it’s cold._” 

The words were loud in her earpiece— just the latest in a stream of pointless commentary from the man who was now approaching from the cover of darkness, less than twenty yards away. 

Agent Fromm chose to ignore him, just as she’d ignored his earlier observations on the moon (“_Like a fuckin’ light bulb_,”) the stale, sulfurous smell of the earth (“_God, it’s like a backed-up drain_,”) or his errors in judgment (“_Knew I shoulda taken a leak when I had the chance_.”) 

Muñoz liked to ramble on, but that didn’t mean she needed to respond. He’d keep on talking, either way. She filtered out his voice, along with her own extraneous thoughts, as she rounded the dark corner of the building, trying to keep her eyes steady and her mind focused, even as she felt Muñoz come up from behind to join her. 

Fromm was a tiny wisp of a woman: at only five-foot-two, and wearing almost her own weight in tac gear, she didn’t tend to inspire fear in those who beheld her, which was precisely why Coulson favored her for this kind of work. Agent Fromm was chronically underestimated. 

She and Muñoz were almost done with their sweep, having split up to circle the entire warehouse. Now that they’d met up on the opposite side, they began to creep back around together, to the set of doors on the front of the building: apparently the only potential point of entry, other than the sealed-up loading dock. 

Fromm had been expecting more chatter from Muñoz as they made their way back, but maybe the man had finally taken the fuckin’ hint, because he kept his mouth shut for a few blessed minutes. 

For a time, the only sounds in the dead of night were her own breathing, the soft, barely-there hiss of the open channel in her ear, and the crunch of their boots on the straw-like grass that covered much of the surrounding property, spreading its way over walkways and filling in old tire-tracks: reclaiming the land, in the inevitable way that only the relentless press of nature, and time, could do. 

Without the buildings, it would have been almost idyllic, at least in warmer weather: the open plain, endless carpets of waving green undulating in the breeze like sea grass on a vast ocean floor. But now, in the gloom of the dark and the cold, it was just another reminder of the harshness of life. Frozen brittle, straw-brown and dead, it stretched for miles in all directions, poking up through the scattered patches of snow like tufts of desiccated fur. 

Muñoz, for all his faults, had been right about the temperature: it was definitely cold for March— even for Fromm, who was no stranger to a challenging climate, having grown up on the tip of Lake Superior in northern Minnesota. But even there, the third month of the year often brought the first flush of annual renewal: hopeful hints of green, as the tips of spring bulbs pressed up through the thawing soil, the cheerful twittering of birds returning to build their nests, and even the odd rain-shower, as the temperatures steadily climbed toward something more comfortable for human beings. 

There was none of that here, in this bleak, sparsely populated plain, where the steppe gave way to its Siberian neighbor to the north… where herders, almost unchanged in their ways of a century ago, shared the polluted territory of distant smokestacks, and where winter hung on with cruel, icy claws. 

The temperature had crawled even lower in the little time they’d been on the ground, made even colder by a biting breeze that was just intermittent enough to preclude any gradual getting used to it. If it’d been a sentient thing, she could’ve imagined it enjoying the way it toyed with them: having mercy for a stretch, only to return with a vengeance, like a reminder of just how unpleasant the life-giving air could be, if it so chose. 

To Agent Fromm, it was just another shitty night on the job, and yeah: it was fuckin’ cold. But stating the obvious didn’t make it any less shitty, and she just wanted to get the job done— with as little bullshit as possible. 

“_We’re all clear_,” she said into her mic, even as her eyes instinctively continued to sweep the lines of the massive building, resting finally on the heavy doors set into its north side. 

The other two teams were reporting similar findings: no signs of life— no hints of any recent activity of any kind, in spite of the promising bit of intel that’d brought them here. 

It was shaping up to be a dead end, but that was just fine with Fromm. If there wasn’t gonna be any action, then the sooner they could get out of here, the better. 

The earpiece made a scratching burp, and then the clear, steady voice of Phil Coulson came through a second later:

“_Roger that_,” he said, and then added, “_No sign of him here_.” He sounded almost cheerful about it, though anyone who’d spent any time in the field with Coulson knew not to read too much into his manner. 

After a pause he spoke again: “_You want to get started on those doors?_” 

“_Glad to_,” said Fromm immediately, pleased that her boss trusted her to take lead on it, and she tilted her head to her partner, who reasserted his grip on his sidearm, nodding before he joined her in cautiously approaching the entrance. 

A short set of steps led up to the double doors, with the loading dock to their right— a large, handleless square of battered corrugated metal, with no apparent mechanism to open it from the outside. It was a standard freight opening— big enough to accommodate a semi-trailer truck unloading cargo— but, like everything else on the site, had the feeling of not having been used in a very long time. 

More of the straw-brown grass was creeping up through cracks in the crumbling cement steps, and the stair-rail’s paint was flaking away, revealing dirty rust beneath. The heavy steel doors were painted a murky, peeling maroon, each with a simple brass pipe-handle, deeply tarnished. A scuffed-up, dirty-white “14” was stenciled onto the left-hand door. 

In another sign of age and long-standing disuse, the entire site was eerily bare of the usual modern electronics for lighting and security; the only visible fixtures were a pair of vintage gooseneck industrial lamps mounted above the double doors. Muñoz shined his field light at them; their domed shades were a well-worn, deep-green enameled porcelain. 

“Dude,” he said, nodding at the fixtures. “We could totally sell those for a couple hundred bucks each. Like, to some hipsters in Brooklyn or something. They love that crap— like, that antiquey boho steampunk bullshit.” 

Fromm actually snickered at that: not only because it was funny to hear Muñoz talk about decor, but also because he was probably right. 

It seemed silly to simply go up and try the front doors, but after a moment of hesitation, she did just that: wrapped her gloved hand around one of the brass-handled door pulls, and gave it a little tug. As expected, it didn’t budge— nor did the other when she tried it; both sides were locked up tight. 

“Here,” said Muñoz, indicating a worn panel mounted to the wall next to the doors. The cover was stuck, and he tapped on it clumsily a couple times with the grip of his sidearm until it came loose, and he lifted up the cover to reveal an ancient, analog keypad. 

“Huh,” said Fromm, as Muñoz moved over for a minute, letting her get a look at it. “Never seen one of these in the field.” And then it was her turn to state the obvious: “I mean, that thing’s really old. Think it’s even still hooked up to anything? Operational?” She stepped away again, so he could get back in there. 

“Doubt it,” he said, feathering a couple of the keys with his gloved finger. “We may have to blow the door. But let’s give it a whirl.” 

Fromm stepped back, instinctively covering him while he was vulnerable, working on the panel. There was nothing to suggest there was anyone else around for miles, other than their own team members working the other buildings, but letting down your guard was how otherwise capable agents tended to fuck up an op, or even get themselves killed. 

“Huh,” said Muñoz, echoing Fromm’s earlier reaction. He’d carefully pried and pulled the keypad a few centimeters out from the wall, careful not to dislodge its wires, and was applying the leads of his field multimeter to the connections. “We got current,” he said, with some surprise. 

“Can you open it?” 

“We’ll see,” he said. “One sec…” 

After another few minutes of tinkering, there was an audible _click_ from the general area of the door handles, and they both held their breath, which was also a bit silly: if something had been rigged to blow up, it would have already happened. 

“I think that’s it,” said Muñoz. “Give it a try.” 

She nodded silently and approached the door, pressing against one of the handles again, looking back to make eye contact with her partner as she felt the door give: it was unlocked. 

They readied their weapons again, instinctively lowering their centers of gravity, and then both of them winced when Fromm pressed a bit harder on the door, not expecting the shrill and sustained creak, like a cry in the night, as the rusty hinges gave way under pressure, allowing the door to swing slowly inward. There was nothing to indicate any living soul would be awaiting them within, but if there had been, those noisy hinges had been as good as any security alarm. 

Neither of them spoke after that, falling back to silent hand signals, as they stepped slow-motion through the doorway, one after the other. 

It was pitch black inside, and they both quickly and quietly pulled down their night-vision goggles, splitting up to clear the interior— Muñoz going east, while Fromm went west. They were both scanning their way methodically, leading with their pistols in double-handed grips, their steps silent and sure, their training making all of it automatic. 

The warehouse was massive, especially for something that looked to have been built in the mid-twentieth century: over thirty thousand square feet of storage space, with ceilings well over twenty feet high. Most of the space was filled with row after row of towering stacks of dusty wooden crates and old cardboard boxes, pushed tightly together to make the most use of the available storage area. Narrow lanes were left in between the stacked rows, barely wide enough to accommodate a small forklift. 

It was cold— no warmer than it’d been outside— and they could see the cloudy-white puffs of their breath as they began to clear the building efficiently, professionally, one lane at a time on their respective sides, assuming nothing… though Fromm didn’t expect to find anything to support the intel, which was increasingly seeming more likely to be— to use a technical term— bullshit. 

The entire place reeked of a lengthy state of abandonment. It was something you could sense in the air: a staleness… almost a kind of spiritual vacuum, if one could tune in to that sort of thing. 

“_I think it’s a dead end, sir_,” she said into her mic, keeping her voice low, as she finished the sweep of her lanes. 

“_Just a lotta dust_,” agreed Muñoz, over the link. He’d paused on his side, running a gloved hand along the top of one of the boxes, and then failed to stifle a sneeze as an enormous plume of dust rose from its surface. 

“_Remain vigilant_,” came the response through their headsets. 

“_Fuckin’ creepy_,” muttered Muñoz, to whomever was listening. “_Reminds me of that scene at the end of Indiana Jones_,” he said. “_You know, the first one?_” He paused for a second, glancing down to his boot, which had brushed against something on the otherwise smooth floor: it looked to be an ancient, mummified rat, and he kicked at it, knocking it toward the line of boxes to his right. He took up the slow sweep of his lane again, stepping carefully, the pistol still gripped in both hands, his elbows slightly bent. 

Fromm had thought— hoped— that he was done with his story, but no such luck. 

“_It was the one where they crated up the Ark at the end— puttin’ it into deep storage with all that other shit— like, maybe forever_.” 

There was a pause— maybe waiting for Fromm to reply. When she remained silent, he went on: “_Gave me the heebie-jeebies, somethin’ that powerful just hidin’ out for another who-knows-how-many years with all those other containers, all of ‘em lookin’ exactly the same_…” 

“_Never seen it_,” said Fromm, hoping that would put an end to the topic. She’d just completed her own sweep on the west side, and then headed cautiously around a corner, between a tall tower of wooden crates to another, smaller area, almost hidden behind the main room. 

“_What you mean, you never seen it_,” said Muñoz. “_You tellin’ me you never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark? For real?_” 

Her silence was answer enough, and Muñoz made a humored, scoffing noise into his mic. “_Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you?_” 

“_Grew up in foster shit-holes_,” said Fromm, simply. “_Missed a lot_.” 

“_Well, we’re watchin’ it when we get back_,” said Muñoz. “_Because that’s a fuckin’ travesty_.” 

“_Whatever_,” said Fromm, hoping the guy would shut the fuck up so she could concentrate. She wished she’d been paired up with Jefferson; he had social anxiety and barely spoke unless asked a direct question, which, in her opinion, made him the perfect partner. 

“_There’s nothing here, sir_,” she said into her mic. “_Definitely nothing to indicate the target was here. Place is empty. I mean, we got a lot of boxes and crates, all sealed up, but no sign of life, not for a long time. Floor is covered in dust, no footprints but our own_.” 

“_We’re done over here_,” came the reply. “_Heading your way. Hold your position_.” 

“_Understood_,” she said, turning the final corner, and then she stopped short, sucking in a breath. 

“_You got something?_” asked Muñoz. 

“_Don’t know_,” she said, and then realized she was whispering, and cleared her throat before speaking in a normal voice. “_Maybe. I mean, yeah_.” 

“_What you got_,” said Coulson, in her ear. 

She was still frozen in place, unsure how to describe was she was seeing. 

Coulson again: “_Fromm, report_.” 

She was fumbling, struggling to find the right words. “_It, uh… God, what the hell is that?_” 

“_Report_,” said Coulson again. “_What are you seeing? You got eyes on the target?_” 

“_No_,” she said, and then flinched when Muñoz was suddenly there, right behind her, at the end of the narrow alley between the last rows of crates. “Fuck, don’t do that,” she said to him, embarrassed that he’d managed to sneak up on her. She pushed her night-vision goggles up, out of the way, and scrambled to switch on her regular headlamp, trying to get a better look. 

Muñoz didn’t bother with any snarky comebacks— he too had pushed up his goggles and, like Fromm, was simply staring, open-mouthed, at the thing at the end of alley. 

“_Whoa. Is that… that can’t be real, right? Gotta be some kind of joke. Like a mannequin_.” Muñoz was still speaking into his mic, but his voice was right next to her other ear now, so she was getting him in stereo. 

“_Someone gonna tell me what you got?_” said Coulson, his voice a little breathless, as though he were walking at a brisk pace, wherever he was. 

“_We, uh… I think it’s a man_,” Fromm finally said, her eyes tracing down the shadowy shape in the… was it some kind of preservation tank? 

“_Dead or alive?_” 

“_Unknown_,” she said, stepping a little closer to it. 

“_What do you mean, unknown_,” said Coulson. He might have sounded irritated, if he’d allowed that sort of emotion to come through his voice, which he didn’t. 

Fromm moved in a little closer, trying to find the appropriate words to describe what she was seeing. 

“_I’m sorry, sir; it’s just… I’ve never seen anything quite like this_…” 

The over-ten-foot-tall tube-shaped tank looked as forgotten as anything else in the building, made of ancient-looking metal and some kind of smoothly-curved, reinforced glass that granted a complete— albeit shadowy in the minimal light—view of its occupant. Going by the shape of the thing inside, it looked to be a full-grown human being— most likely male, judging by the breadth of the shoulders— his body suspended, motionless, like an upright corpse in a showcase coffin. It was ancient tech, going by SHIELD standards, yet still succeeded in looking futuristic, nestled as it was among the thousands of featureless crates and boxes that filled the rest of the warehouse. 

“_You better get over here, Coulson_,” said Fromm, her breath coming a little quicker. 

“_Already on my way_,” came the reply. 

She tried again: “_It’s like_—” 

She didn’t know what it was like, but one thing was for sure: the assignment had taken a complete turnaround— from _snooze_ to _spine-tingling_ in a matter of seconds. 

“It’s like somethin’ outa a fuckin’ sci-fi movie,” supplied Muñoz, under his breath, as he stood next to her, gazing up at it. 

“_I don’t know what this is_,” she said, still speaking to Coulson, “_but you just… you gotta see for yourself_.” 

Fromm took the last few steps that brought her within arm’s reach of the tube. She still couldn’t get a clear look at the man inside— she could see now that it was definitely a man— athletically built, with longish hair, dressed in dark clothing: featureless black pants and a black tank-top. He seemed to be missing an arm. She leaned in and brushed her glove across the dusty glass, trying to get a better look inside— to see his face— but it was too dark, and her headlamp just reflected off the surface of the curved glass. 

Muñoz had found his courage as well, approaching the tank warily. He holstered his weapon and then crouched down, running his hand across a metal plate bolted to the base of the tube, wiping the dust away so that he could see the inscription. 

“Special Item,” he said, his head tilted at an angle to translate the Cyrillic characters etched into the plate. Like all of the agents on this op, he was fluent in Russian. “Number 2567.” 

They both looked up again, toward the shadowy figure of the man within, to where his face must be, and Fromm found herself addressing him. “You something dangerous, Number 2567?” 

“Why you talkin’ to him like he’s alive,” said Muñoz— uneasy, in spite of his words. “No way that dude’s alive. He’s gotta just be… preserved or somethin’.” 

“We don’t know that,” said Fromm, shaking her head. “The keypad out front still had power; maybe this thing runs on some kind of internal generator. Why would someone leave him here like this— in this weird-ass tank— if he’s just a dead body?” Muñoz hadn’t been in the field as long as she had— didn’t know just how weird things could get in this division. 

“I dunno,” he said. “Maybe he’s, like, some kinda anomaly— some one-of-a-kind mutation, and they wanted to preserve him, for future study or somethin’.” He rolled one of his shoulders and then absently itched at his balls through his tac pants. “If that guy’s alive in there, I’ll buy you a steak dinner when we get back.” 

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” she said, and then they both spun around in a half-circle, weapons drawn, at the creaking sound coming from the warehouse entrance, acting more like a couple of frightened kids, than two highly-trained SHIELD agents. 

“_We’re here_,” came Coulson’s voice through the earpiece. 

“_Southwest corner_,” said Fromm, as they both relaxed again, lowering their weapons, and in just a few seconds, she could hear the rest of them coming to them through the building, and then they were there: the three-man group that included her boss, and the other team of two, rounding the corner at the other end of the dark lane. 

“Sir,” she said in greeting, holstering her weapon as she and Muñoz stepped away from the tube to give Coulson a better view. 

Phil Coulson was a bit of an enigma: at first glance— and second, and third— he seemed like a man who’d be more at home in a corporate boardroom than in any kind of field. Nothing about the short, middle-aged, averagely-built man screamed _super-spy_. Those who encountered him— whether as a member of his team, or in opposition to it— invariably learned not to judge a book by its cover. 

He didn’t make eye contact with either Fromm or Muñoz as he stepped forward, his gaze already locked onto the containment tank as he slowly approached it, the other agents fanning out behind him. 

“Well,” he said, as he stopped in front of it. The others had followed cautiously, and now all seven of them were staring at the dark figure inside. 

Coulson finally turned his head to look at Fromm, raising his eyebrows as though impressed. “You don’t see that every day,” he said. And damn if the guy didn’t sound utterly delighted beneath his calm exterior. 

“It says ‘Special Item Number something-or-other’ on the bottom,” said Muñoz. 

“Show me,” said Coulson. 

“Some kinda experiment maybe?” said Muñoz, as Coulson crouched down to look at the metal plate. 

“Could be,” said Coulson, his face now completely unreadable as he stood up again and stared at the tube, considering the mystery man inside. “Whatever it is, we’re taking it with us.” He turned and spoke into his headset as he contacted the support team, back at the Quinjet. “_Coulson here. Yeah. We’re gonna need equipment to remove a large… artifact. Yeah. Yes. Make it quick_.” 

“You think it’ll fit?” said Muñoz skeptically. 

“We’re not leaving it here,” said Coulson, and then swiveled to address Fromm. “You clear the rest of the space?” 

“Yes sir,” she said. “No sign of the target. No sign of anyone, for that matter. I don’t think anyone’s been here for… a long time.” 

“I concur,” said Coulson, but his eyes were far away, his thoughts already hijacked by the puzzle now before him, seemingly unconcerned by the disappointing outcome of the original assignment. He looked back at the tube, and pulled off one of his gloves, pressing his bare palm to the glass as he tried to see inside. 

“There’s a… subtle vibration,” he said, pinching his eyebrows together a fraction. “What’s powering it?” 

“Unknown, sir,” said Muñoz. “We didn’t want to disturb it.” 

Coulson wiped at the glass with his hand— like Fromm, he was trying to get a better look— but it was useless in the poor light. 

The man inside, for his part, seemed to gaze down at them all; though they couldn’t see his eyes, and though he seemed frozen in place— almost certainly dead— it felt like he was somehow judging them. 

Coulson, unfazed, pressed his hand against the glass again, speaking softly, almost a whisper, as he addressed the man inside… 

He couldn’t have explained what made him say what he did, but something about the words made a shiver trickle down Fromm’s spine… 

“We got you, Soldier. We’re getting you out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	2. Chapter 2

There was something familiar about him. 

It was like an itch, that sense of recognition, and Coulson was getting impatient with himself— frustrated that he couldn’t explain it. 

It was quiet in the rear of the jet, the majority of the team dozing in their seats as they sped northward through the sky. The original mission had been shelved after they’d called in the unusual finding, the response from above swift and concise: Secure the cargo. Deliver it with all haste to the appointed location. Do not attempt to open. 

They’d loaded the container onto the jet, sliding it on its back to rest in the center aisle of the cargo area, taking up most of the space. Upright, the body inside had looked like a life-sized doll, still sealed up in its retail packaging; now, lying on its back, it was more like a casket: the team-members seated on both sides around it like mourners at a wake. 

Coulson was the only one standing, leaning over the container to study the man inside. There was a jolt as the Quinjet passed a through patch of bumpy air, and he steadied himself, hands on the container, his eyes never leaving the man. 

He was studying the few parts of the face he could see clearly— the closed eyes, the brow— pushing himself to _think_— to figure it out. Even if he didn’t know this man— and why would he?— there was a reason he was having this frisson of recognition, and he was determined to know why: ideally, before it came time to hand the item over. 

Most of the man’s body was visible now; the light in the rear of the Quinjet wasn’t great, but it was an improvement over the warehouse: enough to get a better look at the person inside. What had looked like a shadow— maybe a beard— back in the hazy-dark of the warehouse, had turned out to be some kind of molded tactical mask that sealed over much of his nose, mouth and jaw. Whether it was meant to be a restraint, or something less sinister, like a breathing apparatus, was unclear— but it gave the man an edge of menace, while also leaving one with a sense of disquiet… as though coming upon a muzzled, mistreated animal in an abandoned cage. 

The man had dark hair— stringy, shoulder-length— and, with few visible lines in his skin, what appeared to be a youngish face. With the mask in the way, it was impossible to narrow an estimate to anything less broad than a range of mid-twenties to late thirties. He was indeed missing an arm, and it looked as though there were some type of metal cap at the shoulder joint. Not a socket, like you might see on someone who’d removed a prosthetic limb, but more like… a placeholder. 

Coulson leaned in closer, his fingertips pressed against the glass, his face a scant inch away from it, and stared at the dormant face, looking for any sign of life: the flutter of a blood vessel, a micro-twitch of a muscle in the man’s eyelids. 

The man's eyes were shut, his forehead slack, everything perfectly still— like he was simply at rest… and maybe he was, in the unlikely case that he wasn’t dead. Either way, he’d been perfectly preserved for an unknowable amount of time. Decades, most likely, judging from the condition of the warehouse. 

There was nothing on the tube, nothing on his person that could be seen through the glass, to suggest he belonged to any particular era. His clothing was generic: nothing more than the black pants and black sleeveless undershirt they’d been able to make out back at the warehouse. He was barefoot. No jewelry or accessories of any kind, other than the face mask. No visible soulmark on his exposed skin. 

He was like something out of a fairy-tale: a more sinister, male version of Snow White or Sleeping Beauty: by all appearances dead. But perhaps he was simply waiting, for someone to awaken him… 

There was something about the brow… so little to go on, yet so familiar… it was a tingling, some deep memory— unreliable, like déjà vu… like he’d dreamed it, or seen it in a movie… a picture in a magazine, maybe… 

Coulson shut his eyes, resisting the urge to rest his forehead against the glass… it was like that maddening feeling of going into a room to do something, or get something— only to realize, upon arrival, that you’d already forgotten why you were there… 

“Any luck?” 

If it’d been anyone else managing to sneak up on him, he would’ve been startled. But this voice, floating into his ears from behind, was always welcome— as was the hand that came to rest upon his back: the touch light, the hand small, delicate… belying the capacity for violence in its owner… 

“No,” he said, turning to give his mate a small smile, as automatic a reaction as breathing, though a mismatch for his present turbulent emotions— not that she’d ever be fooled. 

It’d been more than four years since Agent Melinda Qiaolian May had walked into his office and said the words that wrapped around the back of his neck like spider tracks… the letters he’d worn since birth— standing out black against his pale skin: a rather boring combination, he thought, compared to those with deeper-toned flesh, whose words often shone in beautiful silvers and golds… 

They’d grown, along with him, from an illegible mass of inky, merged freckles, into separate, recognizable words, by the time puberty had started knocking, at age twelve. 

He’d had his mother photograph them with her Instamatic once they were clear, so that he could see for himself— back then, a more tedious affair than today’s one-second click with a smartphone, the ancient technology requiring a trip to the drugstore to get the film developed. His mother had handed over the little orange-and-white envelope, still sealed, and then had left his bedroom, shutting the door, so he could see them for the first time in private. It was a heavy thing, seeing one’s words for the first time, if they hadn’t shown up somewhere obvious, like on a limb. 

They were the words that would identify the person destined— whether literally or more abstractly— to save his life. And, one hoped, would walk with him through joy and sorrow, color his days richer, unlock his potential to be his best self. Perhaps even grant him— and his partner— special abilities; for some, there was a triggering of latent mutations when the words were spoken. For others, there was an enhancement of existing talents. 

He’d had no idea what to expect, going by the words he’d been granted; they offered no clues, other than a vague sense of his holding some kind of respectable position— of his name having some kind of weight. But unlike some, he hadn’t received the slightest hint of who his other half would be— the man or woman who would change the course of his life: his soulmate. 

He’d spent little time daydreaming over the possibilities— accepting, instead, that his fate, such as it was, had already been determined. It would happen when it happened. Yet it still managed to be a surprise— a shock, really— when he finally heard the words said aloud… almost like it had to be some kind of joke. 

She was supposed to be the hot new prospect for his elite team, and he’d been expecting to conduct a sort of interview: a formality, having already decided he wanted her, just based on her impressive service record, and the urging of Director Fury, who’d felt she’d be the right fit for the vacancy. 

And then she’d walked into his office, breathing out those words as though reading from some invisible, cosmic script. It was so utterly familiar, like a tune he’d played in his head, over and over— perseverated on, subconsciously, for decades. Only now, at long last, he was finally hearing it in the proper key— delivered by the only voice in the universe that could make it sound right: not just the bland words he’d repeated to himself since childhood, but like something more ethereal. Sublime… beautiful…perfect. 

Like truth. 

“_I think I’m in the wrong place_,” she’d said, and his lips were already falling open in wonder, before she said the rest, confirming it: “_I was looking for Phil Coulson_.” 

It was almost an insult: the implication that he didn’t measure up in some way, to the reputation that preceded him, and he’d always wondered at that. But faced with it now— the real deal— he could only smile, even as time had slowed down and stalled. 

And then he’d surprised her as well: stepping forward, his hand outstretched, blurting out a short string of words that’d felt like some kind of innate programming bursting forth— at once involuntary, and completely natural— waiting all these years, unbeknownst to him, to be released: 

“_Sorry to disappoint, Agent May_.” 

She’d taken his hand, returning the offered handshake automatically, even as her own face had registered the shock he was already feeling. 

“Did you—” she’d breathed out. “Did we just—” 

“Yeah,” he’d said, still wearing that dopey smile, unable to hide his relief at her confirmation. Mismatches were rare, but not unheard of— so there was always that bit of anxiety for those still awaiting the moment of truth… 

He’d been gripping her hand for too long, but she hadn’t tried to pull away, and then she’d smiled back at him— something already warm between them— and Coulson had thought, _Okay: Maybe I really am this lucky_. 

They’d finally dropped hands, though their eyes had remained linked, and Agent May had said, with a little bit of humor, “Why does it feel like my life just got a lot more complicated?” 

“I don’t know,” he’d said, a smile still playing on his face, already enjoying her immensely. “Isn’t it supposed to be the opposite?” 

“I wouldn’t know,” she’d said. “But… however this ends up going…” She’d paused, one corner of her mouth pulling up in another smile— this one a little sly… “I’ve already got the feeling that you’re worth it.” 

The ensuing years hadn’t always been easy, operating almost side-by-side as a mated couple: something that was discouraged in most workplaces, even outlawed in some. But they’d proven themselves a better, stronger unit because of it, rather than in spite of it— though they’d kept under wraps just how easily they were able to read one another in the aftermath of their word-bonding. 

It was another kind of rarity: an identical, reciprocal gift. In their case, it was an almost telepathic sharing of thoughts— like being able to eavesdrop on the subconscious of the other: an ability to sort through and interpret the other’s rumination in a way not otherwise easily accessible. It was an undeniably useful asset, at times. It also made it nearly impossible to keep secrets from one another, which was not something they were inclined to broadcast while in the employ of an organization like SHIELD. 

Coulson and May hadn’t completely hidden the effects of the bond from their superiors— it would have been foolish to try— but they did allow them to believe it was more on the level of, say, Counselor Troi from _Star Trek: The Next Generation_; that it’d given them a sense of heightened empathy and intuition, but stopped short of actual, literal mind-reading. To be sure, it was like that much of the time: just a glimmer of feeling, a sense of something… _more_. But there were times when the connection was so powerful, so profound, that it was like sharing a single consciousness— and that was a level of ability it did well to keep quiet. Both of them, it turned out, were skilled enough to pull off the deception. 

Now, as she stood behind him in the crowded hold of the jet, her arms wrapped loosely around him, he couldn’t have hidden his trepidation from her if he’d tried. 

“I know I’ve seen this face before,” he said, keeping his voice low. He was repeating the words he’d already said to her— both aloud and in his own thoughts, numerous times— as though the recitation of them would somehow loosen the relevant memories in his mind… or, barring that, reveal the secret to _her_ somehow, even though it didn't work like that. 

“You mean this forehead?” she joked as she released him, leaning over the tube to take another look for herself. 

The man was handsome— that much was evident, even with the mask on— but there was nothing particularly noteworthy about him, other than the missing arm: no explanation for Phil’s obvious agitation. It wasn’t like they’d found someone famous, like a long-dead president, preserved in a jar… 

“Maybe he just reminds you of someone you used to know,” she said, even though she knew better: when Phil had an itch, it meant something. It was silly to even suggest otherwise. Still, the urge to comfort him was instinctive. To ease his troubled mind. The way Phil was feeling— the waves of unease she was receiving from his subconscious… 

She couldn’t see the answer in his mind either— not yet— but whoever he was, this man shouldn’t exist. Not here, not now. There was something wrong about it— and somewhere, deep inside Phil’s psyche, he knew it. The answer was in there, somewhere. 

“I hope they let you stay, when they extract him,” she said. 

“Oh, they will,” he said, a humored certainty in his voice. 

“You have time to split a sandwich with me?” she asked, leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment. “I’ve got about fifteen more minutes ’til it’s my turn up front.” 

“What kind?” he asked, though it seemed like he was only half-listening to her. 

“FLT,” she said. The “F” was for facon: a meatless bacon substitute… and surprisingly good, though it was better when it was fresh out of the pan. 

“I could eat,” he said, finally dragging his eyes away from the man in the tube. 

“Good,” she said. “I was starting to think I’d have to bribe you, to drag you away from your boyfriend here.” 

He cracked a smile, this one real. 

“The FLT’s not a bribe?” 

“Not the one I had in mind,” she said, her eyes dancing. 

“Damn,” he said, his eyes flicking down to her lips for just a second. “I gave in too easy.” They were both grinning like a couple of idiots as he allowed her to pull him away, toward the cockpit, where her go-bag and the sandwich awaited, a few of the seated, strapped-in agents snickering at their playful bantering: Coulson and May were just too damn cute. 

It was a much-needed moment of levity, amid the otherwise somber atmosphere in the rear of the jet, dominated as it was by the large container, and the body that was visible inside it. 

It felt as though they were riding in an aerial hearse, en route to a funeral. Only there could be no true memorial for a man with no name: his provenance unknown, save to those who’d abandoned him— left alone in the dark, forgotten… like just another crate of old, outdated junk. 

* * *

Jasper Sitwell was nervous. 

He was pacing around the tiny bit of open space just inside the entryway to the high-security medical center, tucked away in the bowels of the Hub. The small group of low-level grunts were just finishing up their work, sliding the heavy piece of freight, almost ceiling-high, into the spot he’d indicated, while the doctor, her three med-tech assistants, and Phil Coulson all stood by, waiting. 

The tube had been covered up upon arrival at the base, for the sake of discretion: sealed over with a shiny, antistatic tarp, hiding its disturbing contents. The grunts were none the wiser as to what they’d transported from the docking bay, though there were sure to be rumors: calling it an artifact— as Phil had— had been a good start. Whatever ghost story bubbled up would serve as a distraction from the truth, until the speculation died down. Meanwhile, everyone from the Kazakhstan team had been thoroughly debriefed— warned of the consequences for any leaks. 

Sitwell adjusted his eyeglasses and waved a dismissive hand at the grunts. “Clear the room,” he said, now that they’d settled the container into place. Nobody else spoke until they’d left, at which point Sitwell used his voice authorization to enable the electronic lock. 

“Okay,” he said, returning his attention to the ten-foot-high, four-foot-wide monolith. “Let’s see what you’ve brought us, Phil.” 

He nodded to the med-techs— a tall, skinny white guy; a shorter, more heavyset redhead; and a muscular Latina who looked like she could wrestle either one of her colleagues to the floor, if she’d wanted to. The three of them stepped forward and began to unwrap it, taking their time. Sitwell had chosen them himself, and he wasn’t disappointed; they were all completely professional: Not one of them made a fuss when the contents were revealed; they simply stepped out of the way once they were done, and began to efficiently fold up the tarp. 

Coulson glanced to Sitwell, wanting to gauge his reaction: the man’s eyes were raking up and down the tube, his hands on the hips of his charcoal suit as he took it all in, unspeaking. He moved one hand to his tie, smoothing it down and then up, once in each direction, and then glanced to the techs and nodded again. “Open it up.” 

“Right now?” asked the doctor. She was new to Coulson: young for her position as chief medical officer for the secured areas— maybe in her mid-thirties— but she had a commanding air about her, and it was clear that she had a fair amount of authority in the room. 

“Why wait?” said Sitwell, and the doctor merely shrugged in response. 

The techs still looked to Coulson for confirmation, and he nodded his approval. Technically, it was Sitwell’s call: this was his turf, his people; but Coulson appreciated the courtesy, in any case. 

The three techs re-approached the tube, murmuring to one another as they circled it, examining and assessing its workings, keeping their focus, for now, on the inorganic features of the container as they worked together to determine how to open it. 

“Here,” the redhead finally said, and the other two leaned in to look, and after a bit of messing around, there was a loud _clunk_, like some sort of latch being released, revealing another panel on the side. 

“Looks coded,” murmured the female tech. 

“No problem,” said tall one, after he’d gotten a look at it. “I’ve seen this kind before. It’s electronic, but it’s old. Lemme just grab—” He jogged over to the adjoining lab, returning with some kind of hand-held device. He activated it and then waited while it ran its analysis on the electronic panel, working to detect and disarm the integrated security system, and run possibilities for the locking mechanism. 

“Got it,” he said, after a minute. “Or at least, I’ve narrowed it down to seven attempts. No way to know if there’s a failsafe— a limit to the number of tries permitted…” He looked to Sitwell again, reconfirming that he really wanted it open— right there, right then. 

Sitwell nodded. “Do it.” 

The tall guy tapped away at the panel— trying the codes, one at a time. After the third attempt, there was a beep, and the panel went blank, as though something had shorted out. “Shit,” he said, pulling his hand back. “I don’t know what—” 

He never finished what he was going to say, because what had looked like a failsafe kicking in turned out to be the system accepting the code: there was a series of clicks, and then a slow, tapering hiss as the seal on the tube itself was breached. The glass portion of the tube began to retract smoothly into the curved metal wall of the container, and a thin cloud of vapor escaped from within, quickly evaporating in the warmer air around it. There was a noticeable drop in temperature around the tube, as the frigid air within escaped. 

Everyone took an instinctive step back. 

“Seems like… some kind of cryogenic prototype, maybe?” said the tall guy, as he recovered his professional demeanor, now leaning in cautiously to get a first look at the man inside. 

“Let me take a look,” said the female, stepping in to assess the condition of the body, while the tall guy moved back, getting out of her way. “You got your tablet ready?” she said to the redhead, who was standing by to take down her observations. She reached a hand in, pressed her gloved fingertips to the man’s neck, as a first, routine formality. After a few seconds, she pulled her hand back in surprise, her eyes wide. 

“He’s alive,” she said, with something between awe and horror. 

Sitwell took a step forward. “Are you certain?” 

“He’s got a pulse,” insisted the woman, now checking the man’s wrist, to reconfirm. She looked up as she measured it, made eye contact with Sitwell as she again detected the faint sign of life. “It’s slow,” she said. “Abnormally, impossibly slow, but…” She shook her head and let go of the wrist. “Don’t ask me how, sir, but this man is alive.” 

“Matheson,” said Sitwell, and the doctor moved forward quickly with her mobile scanner, edging the techs out of the way to take some rudimentary readings of his vitals: heart rate, temperature, blood pressure. Coulson could see her lifting the man’s eyelids, one by one, shining her pen-light onto his eyes, checking his pupils… 

“Can we get him out of here? Move him to one of the beds,” she said, and then stepped aside again so that the techs could work on the restraints that were holding him upright in the tube. 

“Here,” said the female tech quietly, “and here.” Their voices were softer now, more gentle— a natural response to the revelation that they were dealing with a living human being. There were more sounds of metal scraping against metal, and the _clicks_ of latches being released, and then suddenly the man was falling forward, the techs scrambling to support his substantial weight as he fell into them, sagging against them like a rag doll, and Coulson instinctively rushed up to join them, helping to keep the man’s body from collapsing to the floor. 

He wasn’t frozen, but his skin was bone-cold, and he was heavy— a dead weight. Together, the four of them supported the body as they shuffled their way over to one of the two hospital beds, managing to lay him out on it, lifting his legs up, until he was stretched out upon it. His eyelids spasmed once, twice, and then there was the faintest sound— like a stifled whimper— from beneath the face mask. 

“We need to get this off,” said the tall one, stepping back so that the doctor could move in again and get a look. “I don’t know if it’s restricting his breathing, or—” 

“I don’t believe it is,” she said. She was following the edges of the mask with her gloved fingertips. “Looks a bit like the tactical respirators some of the strike team use— just a little… older.” She flinched, halting her movements, when the man’s hand jerked, but it seemed to be an involuntary response— he was still unconscious. 

“But…” she continued, as she put her hands back on him, a little more carefully this time, “I can’t imagine it’s very comfortable.” She was feeling her way around the back side of the mask, beneath the man’s neck. “Doesn’t seem to be attached to his tissues in any way,” she said. “There’s just a—” 

There was a muffled clicking sound like a set of snaps being undone, and Coulson saw her lift off and then hand the mask over to the redhead, who carefully took it aside to be examined and catalogued at a later time. The doctor was still leaning over the man, assessing his condition, checking his eyes again, looking inside his mouth… 

“He’s breathing independently,” she said, standing up straight again and turning around to address the two men in suits. “But still unconscious. How deeply, it’s impossible to say at this time. He could awaken in a minute, or…” She shrugged her shoulders, not saying it— but they all knew what she meant: that he might never wake up. “I’ll know more when I’ve had a chance to observe him, get some readings.” 

“What do you recommend?” asked Coulson. He was gradually moving forward, trying not to betray his need to look at the man’s face, now that the mask was off. The doctor was still standing in the way, blocking his view. 

“Let’s get him hooked up,” she was saying, and then pivoted to address the techs who were still standing by. “I want continuous monitoring of all his vitals, and I’d like to give him some supplemental oxygen. Let’s get a drip going as well— get some glucose into him; we’ll go from there, once we get a baseline…” 

She finally stepped away, to give her team room to carry out her orders, and in the intervening moment before they moved in, Coulson stepped forward, finally getting his first real look at the man. 

Nothing could have prepared him for it. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have reacted the way he did, if he hadn’t been completely obsessed with Captain America growing up— the history, the legend, the lore. He was a bonafide fanboy: a geek. He knew all of Cap’s missions as though he’d been there himself. Knew all of his team-members, their faces and backgrounds, their own histories, as well as— or even better than— some of his own family tree. 

Because of all this, Coulson recognized the man on the bed immediately— even though it made no sense— and it filled him with a sense of dread, because he didn’t understand. 

James Buchanan Barnes. “Bucky” to his friends, his brothers-in-arms. He’d gone after Hydra with Captain America, using his gifts as a talented sniper and scout to do the kind of dirty work that Cap couldn’t, or wouldn’t do— certainly not if there were any cameras running. 

They’d grown up in Brooklyn together, in between the wars, and when Bucky had shipped off to serve his country in Europe, leaving his friend behind, little Steve Rogers had undergone the experimental procedure that’d turned him into America’s first real superhero. They’d been reunited behind enemy lines, when Cap had rescued Bucky and his fellow soldiers from a Hydra work camp, only for Barnes to be tragically killed in action, in the cold, late months of 1944, after falling hundreds of feet from a fast-moving train. 

Though his friend couldn’t have survived such a fall, Cap had still been haunted by their being forced to leave his remains to lay wherever they’d landed, the mission not allowing for a recovery operation— a decision that had reportedly tormented the man until his own death a few months later. 

The thought of it made Coulson sick now, as he reeled from the revelation, and its implications— the truth that the man hadn’t died, after all— that he’d somehow survived the unsurvivable— and then… what? What had become of him? How had he gone from an icy ravine, somewhere in the Alps in 1944, to some kind of suspended animation, stored away in a dusty warehouse in Kazakhstan… unearthed only by chance, more than a half-century later… 

It was impossible. He should be dead. Disintegrated— his bones scattered, his atoms returned to the earth, living on only in the pages of history books, like his famous friend. And yet it was assuredly him— or someone made to look exactly like him, which seemed improbable; what would be the point? 

No: it was James Barnes; Coulson was sure of it. 

In spite of the long, stringy bangs; a bit of scruffy, uneven facial hair; the furrows in his skin, left behind by the press of that mask for who-knows-how-many years… it was still, without question, the same face he’d seen in any number of history books or on memorabilia— even in comics, though they’d never gotten his natural good looks quite right in those. Coulson knew that face like he was looking at an old friend. The man was a legend, at least to those who still cared about that sort of thing. 

Coulson became aware that Sitwell had been watching him closely, and he tried to reel in his emotion, the evidence of how shaken he was. Apparently Sitwell wasn’t as well-versed in his early-twentieth-century icons, because he hadn’t responded at all to the unmasking of the man’s face. Coulson found himself privately irritated that his colleague was so lacking in his appreciation of his own country’s military history— indeed, with a history that’d overlapped and intertwined with the origins of the organization they both now served. 

“You know this man,” Sitwell said, his voice telegraphing surprise. 

“Yes.” He answered immediately, not bothering to deny it. “You don’t?” 

“He looks familiar, but…” Sitwell took another look at the man, and shook his head. “No. I don’t recognize him. Should I?” 

“Does the name… James Buchanan Barnes— Bucky Barnes— mean anything to you?” he said. 

Sitwell shifted his feet, crossed his arms over his chest. “Rings a bell,” he said, though he didn’t sound very confident. “But—” 

“Served with Captain America? His name’s on the Wall of Valor.” 

“Okay,” said Sitwell, nodding his head. “Yeah. I mean, of course. I remember the name now. One of the… ‘Howling Commandos,’ wasn’t he?” 

“Yes.” 

Sitwell looked at the man again and raised his eyebrows, his skepticism apparent. “You think this is—” He cut himself off and shook his head. “I don’t understand.” 

“Neither do I,” said Coulson, his voice grim now. “He was never officially declared KIA, but…” 

The three techs were still hovering around the man’s body— had started an IV in his arm, attached a finger cuff to monitor his vital signs; there was now a colorful collection of wavy lines and fluctuating numbers on the linked flatscreen, in an electronic testament to the truth of it: He was really there, and most definitely alive. 

“You’re certain,” said Sitwell. “You’re sure it’s him.” 

“I’d bet my life on it,” said Coulson. 

“Could it be a clone, or—” Sitwell began pacing around the room again. 

Coulson looked at the sleeping man again and pressed his lips together, his initial shock now morphing into some other emotion— a kind of excitement, mixed with anger, made chaotic by a multitude of questions, none of which he could begin to answer… 

“Why would he be stored away like that,” Sitwell was saying. “In an old warehouse, with a bunch of decaying boxes, in the middle of nowhere…” 

“If he’s who you say he is,” the redhead offered, though he hadn’t been invited to speak. “I mean, he couldn’t be a clone. Our own people didn’t even have that kind of tech until—” 

Sitwell spun back around and began to issue orders in a clipped voice, cutting the man off briskly. “You: Run a DNA analysis on him. Top priority.” He was rubbing his fingers against his forehead, clearly agitated, and he stopped and honed in on Coulson. “You got someone you can trust on this?” he said. “See if he’s got any living descendants to run a match? Discreetly?” 

Coulson nodded. “I’ll see to it myself,” he said. 

Sitwell looked around, snapped his fingers once. “Listen up,” he said sharply, making sure he had the attention of all three techs, as well as the doctor. “This information doesn’t leave this room. Understood?” He looked at each one them in turn, waiting for their confirmation, and then he turned to Coulson again and tilted his head toward the door. “A word? In private?” 

They headed to the door, Sitwell turning back to issue one last command. “Report directly to me or to Agent Coulson here. Do not bring anyone else in on this. You hear me?” 

“Yes sir,” they all said, acknowledging the seriousness of his tone, and then they returned to their work as Sitwell followed Coulson out the door, letting it latch behind them. 

They huddled up, there in the corridor, as they conferred— keeping their heads slightly bowed, their voices low. 

“He could be some kind of sleeper,” said Sitwell. “Or… we don’t know what—” He cut himself off abruptly, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Until we know what’s going on; why—” He shook his head. “We keep this between the two of us, and the people in that room, who've already seen him, heard who he is…” He corrected himself. “Who he _may_ be.” 

Coulson nodded. “I think that’s wise,” he said. “But you’re right; we can’t rule out that he’s been compromised by… some other organization.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Can you count on their discretion?” 

“Yeah. Hand-picked them, when I got the call you were bringing something sensitive in. All of them are solid. We’ll schedule them so that nobody else has to rotate in for duty…” 

“Good.” 

Sitwell looked down to the end of the hallway as he spoke, his eyes furtive. “So what now.” 

“Let’s confirm his identity first. In the meantime, I’ll talk to Fury, see how he wants to handle this.” 

“Agreed,” said Sitwell, and then looked down at his watch. “I need to be somewhere,” he said, “But keep me informed, if you can. I’m… concerned about what this means.” 

“You and me both,” said Coulson. “We’ll talk again soon.” He nodded curtly as he took his leave, and then he headed off down the hall, his mind swirling with a tangle of emotions, already making mental lists of things to be done— needing to keep his focus, for now, on concrete actions he could take… 

Sitwell watched him go, his hands on his hips. Once the other man had passed through the door at the end of the hall and was out of sight, Sitwell pulled his phone out of his pocket and punched in a string of numbers, connecting to the secure channel. He put in an additional code, and then lifted the phone to his ear, turning to face the wall. He was making it look like he was fidgeting, when in fact he was shielding the view of his lips from the cameras he knew were trained on the hallway. 

“Sitwell,” he said softly, into the phone. “Yeah. Visual confirmation. It’s him.” He immediately ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, brushed his hand over his mouth, and then swiveled around and strode off in the opposite direction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning**: A character in distress is forcibly restrained through both physical and chemical means.

The whiskey was good. 

Coulson drained the last of it from the tumbler and set the glass back down on his desk with a gentle _clink_, rolling the smoky flavor around on his tongue as he stared at the trading card in his hand. It was a near-mint-condition Sgt. James “Bucky” Barnes, from his prized collection of vintage Howling Commandos cards: a complete set from the only official run released while Sergeant Barnes had still been alive. Or so he’d believed. 

He wore a hint of a smirk, that jaunty young man on the card. He looked younger than their warehouse man, but he had the advantage of being well-groomed: his short, dark hair was combed and styled; his face was clean-shaven and smooth; and his uniform was tidy and well-tailored— everything in its place. 

Even in a frozen-in-time photographic image, there was a certain swagger that came through in his expression, like he knew he looked good— in a bad-boy sort of way, with that cigarette dangling from his lip. It was easy to see why women had been drawn to him, if the stories were true. 

It was like day and night, comparing the cocky soldier on the card to the disheveled, hollowed-out husk of a man they’d discovered in Kazakhstan. 

Even so, the truth was right there, staring back at him: Same face. Same man. 

Barring the unlikely possibility that he was a clone— the chances of that so ludicrously slim, they’d all but ruled it out already— then that was really James Barnes down there: ninety-four years old but not looking a day over thirty, lying unconscious in the high-security medical center… hooked up to an array of leads and tubes, a team of technicians poking and prodding at his comatose body, taking little bits and pieces of his matter away for analysis as though he were some kind of alien species, rather than a living, breathing man with a right to live the life he’d apparently been robbed of. 

He was like some kind of miracle: a modern-day Lazarus, raised from the dead, having survived unknown torments. Considering the way he’d been restrained, muzzled, abandoned… one could only assume that whatever had happened to him, it couldn’t have been good. 

Coulson lifted the tumbler again— trying to take another pull on the drink, before he remembered he’d already finished it— and set the empty glass back down. He set down the trading card too, placing it next to the one that pictured the man’s much more famous friend: Steve Rogers— or _Captain America_, as he was more commonly known. 

Another tragic story, and another body left to the elements— likely forever, in his case, in spite of Fury’s stubbornly persistent attempts to search for it, sending team after team to scour the endless plains of Greenland’s permafrost, looking for any sign of the aircraft that Rogers had deliberately crash-landed all those years ago. 

The Captain on the card was wearing one of his early versions of the suit— a brightly-colored, cartoonish thing: made for press tours, not combat— and was saluting him, a look on his face that seemed to say, “_We’re in this together_,” or, “_I’m counting on you to do your part_.” Looking at it now, Coulson felt a wave of guilt pass through him, wondering what the Captain would think of the job Coulson was doing now— putting the fate of his resurrected best friend in the hands of some cold-hearted committee. 

He felt like a traitor. 

He’d done all he could in the three days since they’d released Sergeant Barnes from his state of suspended animation. The records he’d dug up had yielded nothing useful; Barnes’s family line had ended with his sister, Rebecca, who’d married and raised two children before dying in 1967 of thyroid cancer. Those children now had kids of their own— grandchildren even— but Rebecca hadn’t left behind any biological descendants: both of her children had been adopted, so none of their issue were of use for a DNA comparison. 

There’d been some marginally-related cousins in Europe, according to the genealogy, but the line was so far removed that the few family trees he’d found published online didn’t even branch out far enough to reach their distant American relation— perhaps didn’t even know about him… or simply didn’t care. 

It was becoming more clear that James “Bucky” Barnes wasn’t as known outside America— or even within the United States, beyond a small circle of World-War-II-history-enthusiasts— as Coulson had assumed. But maybe it shouldn’t have been such a surprise: Even Captain America himself was barely a single page of reading in the public-school curriculum now— an almost mythical personage from a bygone era, rather than a real human being who’d lived and breathed and inspired a generation. 

Enough time had now passed that all those brave men and women seemed about as real to today’s children as did the stories of ancient Rome— tragedies like the Holocaust unfathomable— to the point that it was becoming increasingly likely for history to repeat itself, as people forgot just how truly awful things could get… what human beings were capable of doing to one another. 

In light of this disappointing realization— that Bucky Barnes’s name had been all but lost to time— he’d chosen _not_ to go knocking on the doors of fifth cousins thrice-removed in Ireland and Wales, trying to explain himself, and the impossible-to-believe situation. It’d now become more prudent to check with his contacts at the National Archives: to chase down the possibility that the records would lead to some of the man’s personal effects— maybe there was something they could pull some DNA from, if anything had been preserved. All they needed was a single hair, trapped in an old jacket-collar, or some ancient skin cells, ground into the brim of a hat… 

If there weren’t any leads there, he could try Rogers’ things, which he knew had been collected over the years by the Smithsonian; maybe there was a letter or a postcard from Barnes, sent home before Rogers had joined him on the battlefield. If they could find even one envelope… one stamp— either of which would have retained some of the man’s DNA, if he’d personally wet the adhesive… 

Not that Coulson even needed any convincing; in his bones, he already knew the man down in medical was James Barnes. What was bothering him— other than his apparent longterm captivity by the Soviets, presumably, which was bad enough— was a kind of loneliness in the fact that there was nobody waiting to hear the news. Nobody still alive who would have that sense of relief— that joy of hearing that a son, a brother, a sweetheart, a best friend… was still alive. That Bucky Barnes had survived after all. Anyone who’d truly cared for the man was already gone. 

It was an ache. This man— whatever had happened to him— had deserved better. Didn’t deserve to wake up to a world that didn’t know him— barely remembered him, if at all… and, if it did, would probably seek to exploit his survival in some way, in this modern world of greedy, short-lived fame, and its obsession with squeezing money out of whatever was briefly headline-worthy. 

He would be like a time-traveler: confused and adrift in a strange future where he knew no-one… his soulmate likely long-since deceased, the man himself doomed to be haunted by the ghosts of his dead friends, if he even remembered them. If he even remembered himself, once he woke up. 

_If_ he woke up. 

It was a terrible thought, but Coulson couldn’t help thinking it anyway: that perhaps he’d be better off, if he never did… 

A single, sharp tone— an alert from his phone— interrupted Coulson’s brooding, and he tapped the screen once, listening to the voice that sounded through the device’s speaker. It was one of the techs from the med center. He sounded agitated. 

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but… you better get down here. He’s coming around.” There was a muffled sound, like he was fumbling with something next to the speaker. “Ah, shit—” There was a crash, like glass breaking, and more voices in the background, the sounds of a scuffle… 

Coulson was already standing up, grabbing the phone off the desk. 

“On my way.” 

* * *

He could hear the crashing from down the hall as soon as he got off the elevator, and he jogged the rest of the way to the room, the soles of his dress shoes skidding to a stop as he reached the secure doors. 

“Coulson, Phillip J,” he called out, and then rattled off the code to override the lock on the door, and it slid open a second later, granting him access. The door shut automatically behind him after he went through, and he called out the command to re-secure it, even as he stopped short, taking in the situation. 

The room was in total disarray: tables upended, medical equipment broken and scattered across the floor. The scent of blood hung in the air. 

Barnes looked larger, more powerful, now that he was up, even in his slightly crouched, defensive stance by the beds. His chest was heaving under the thin hospital gown— from exertion or fear; maybe both— his eyes darting around the room, his one arm held in front of his body. His hand was open, palm toward the others, but it wasn’t a placating gesture— he was preparing to either attack or defend, as needed. 

His long, greasy hair, his dirty scruff of a beard, and the lack of an arm on his left side all combined to make him seem— perhaps unfairly— like something almost wild… unhinged. His eyes— a glassy but brilliant blue— seemed to struggle to make sense of the situation, to assess the three techs who were encroaching on him… 

They were inching up on him in a curved line, while blocking his access to the rest of the room, glancing at each other nervously, clearly reluctant to dive back in. The tall guy had a split lip, the blood dripping down in red streaks on his white lab coat, and the red-headed guy was limping. The female’s face was grim and focused, her body in a basic boxer’s stance, her fists raised and ready. 

Coulson could see Doctor Matheson off to the side, preparing something in a syringe with a long, nasty-looking needle, her movements focused, brisk. She ignored Coulson, pushing past him wordlessly once it was ready. 

“You’re gonna have to hold him,” she said to the others, and then, more softly, “On the count of three. One… two…” 

On the downbeat of the unspoken _three_, the techs rushed him all at once, the female going for his arm, while the others tried to immobilize him, wrapping their arms around his torso and pressing on the backs of his knees to destabilize him. 

The doctor moved in quickly, trying to get to his shoulder, but just as she pulled up on the short sleeve of the gown to give him the shot, he managed to break free from the grip on his arm, and thrashed out wildly, striking the doctor in the face, knocking her glasses off. He was ripping at her hand, trying to fend her off, his movements panicked, uncontrolled, and she stumbled back, holding the needle out of his reach, not wanting to stick herself or any of her team by accident. 

“Give us a hand, would you?” she said to Coulson, her voice a little rough, looking more vulnerable without her glasses on. 

Part of him wanted to stay out of it— something in him feeling empathy for the man; he was obviously terrified. But the situation was dangerous… already well beyond a verbal de-escalation. It was possible that Barnes had no sense of what he was doing— and he was going to hurt someone. He needed to be stopped— even for his own good— to give him a chance to calm down so they could talk to him, try to explain what was going on… at least, the parts they were prepared to disclose. 

Coulson had already seen enough— had analyzed the man’s movements in the brief struggle— to recognize he’d been well-trained in hand-to-hand combat: could have easily disabled any of the staff, if given the chance, and likely all five of them together, if he were less confused. 

He would need to act quickly— aggressively— to disable him. He waited until the struggling mass of people caused Barnes to turn his back to him: the one man in the room who wasn’t actively trying to subdue him. He stepped in decisively— made it obvious— deliberately let Barnes sense him there, waited for him to swipe at him defensively. 

As soon as he did, Coulson pushed his own left arm against the man’s triceps, blocking the arm while it was outstretched, and then just as quickly grabbed his wrist with his right hand, bent the arm back, pinning it against the man’s own spine, and then immediately bent the the hand back toward his elbow at an awkward angle— effectively locking him in place— holding his wrist there firmly as the man struggled against the pinning maneuver. 

It was a basic move— one that even the techs should have been able to execute on a weaponless, one-armed man— and he made a mental note to have May re-evaluate the training requirements for the non-combatant employees. 

“Do it now,” he said to the doctor, as Barnes continued to strain against the wrist-lock, the techs doing their best to help hold him steady now. 

The doctor moved in again, this time without hesitation, and quickly jabbed Barnes in the shoulder with the fresh needle, depressing the plunger with her thumb. The invasion induced a sharp sound of protest from him— something feral, between a growl and a snarl— and he redoubled his attempts to break free from the wrist-lock. 

“How fast will that work?” said Coulson, trying to sound neutral, not wanting to betray how much effort it was taking to keep the man pinned, or the unease he felt as he sensed the waves of raw fear coming off of him. 

“It should have taken effect by now,” she said, frowning. 

“You, uh… you might want to try something stronger,” said Coulson, still keeping his voice calm, as Barnes tried to kick back at him with his feet, trying to knock him out of his stance. 

“Hold his legs, dumbass,” said the female tech to the redhead, who obeyed, dropping down to wrap his arms firmly around one of the man’s legs, like a little kid trying to immobilize an adult, using his extra girth to his advantage. 

“Better hurry,” said Coulson, his voice more insistent now, knowing that they were running out of time. The man’s strength was impressive: even with being down an arm, Barnes was somehow more than a match for the four of them; they wouldn’t be able to hold him much longer. He was like a mad dog— panting, growling, never letting up in the struggle to free himself. 

As of yet, he’d failed to say any recognizable words, but the message was obvious: it was panic, everything in his body screaming it out as clearly as any audible plea: 

_No_. 

The doctor finally jogged back over to where they were holding him steady, and in one swift movement, jabbed the needle into his bared right shoulder, quickly depressing the plunger to inject the drug. 

“That oughta do it,” she said, after she’d pulled the needle away, and then added nervously, “if it doesn’t kill him.” 

“What?” said Coulson, just as he felt the man’s muscles suddenly slacken, his entire body beginning to sag, and together they all dragged him back over to the bed, remaining vigilant in case he was just putting them on. 

“Get the restraints,” said the doctor, and as one of them moved to do it, she amended, “The, uh… the good ones. Guy’s obviously got some kind of enhancements that didn’t show up on our tests.” 

“You think he’s powered?” asked Coulson. He was breathing heavily now, from the adrenaline, his hands on his hips, heart pounding as he looked at Barnes laid out on the bed. The man’s eyes were rolling up, eyelids fluttering, his lips moving, making slurred, barely-audible noises, almost like he was finally trying to speak. Two of the techs were still holding him down, just in case— putting their body weight into it, practically sitting on him. 

The redhead, meanwhile, had quickly procured the locking, reinforced-metal straps and cuffs that would both tether and immobilize him. As they set about the work of securing his three limbs, Barnes whimpered one last time, and then seemed to finally give over to the drug, his face relaxing, breathing heavily through his mouth. 

“Definitely some kind of strength enhancement,” said the female tech, answering Coulson’s question. “Don’t think we could’ve held him if you hadn’t shown up when you did. If he’d hadn’t been weakened by… I mean, by everything he’s been through…” She shook her head. 

They heard the control panel for the door chime an alert— someone outside, overriding the security lock— and they all turned to see that it was Sitwell coming through to join them. 

“Got here as soon as I could,” he said. “Everything under control?” He took a look around the room, noting the obvious signs of the scuffle, the techs working together to strap Barnes to the bed. 

“It is now,” said the doctor. “We got lucky. Should’ve had him restrained before, as a precaution. He’s… a lot stronger than he should be. Enhanced.” 

Coulson had walked over to the corner of the room, bending down to retrieve the doctor’s eyeglasses. He picked them up carefully and walked them back over to her, handing them over wordlessly. 

“Thanks,” she said, and then blew the hair out of her face, taking a moment to clean the lenses with her blouse before putting them back on. 

“Could he be a mutant?” said the redhead. They’d finished securing Barnes, and, after verifying that the straps were tight, had left his bedside to begin seeing to the damage: picking up the scattered pieces of broken glass on the floor, righting the little table he’d knocked over, replacing the tubes he’d yanked out… 

“We’re not seeing anything like that,” said the doctor, “But we can’t test for what we don’t know.” 

“Bond-gift maybe?” asked Sitwell. 

“Unknown,” she said. “Could be.” 

“Did you find his mark?” 

“Couldn’t find one, during my exam,” she said. “Maybe it was on his arm. The one he lost.” 

“Or he could be a blank,” said the female tech. 

“What about records,” said the tall one. 

“They didn’t start registering soldiers’ marks until 1957,” said Coulson. “But Rogers— uh, Captain America— went on record, in the inquiry… after, uh… after Barnes died.” It was strange to say the name out loud: to commit to it. 

“After he was _presumed_ dead,” he said, correcting himself. “If I recall, Captain Rogers said that Barnes hadn’t yet met his soulmate, at the time of the fall. Definitely implied he had a mark— and that Rogers knew what it was.” 

“Could have been lying,” suggested the doctor. 

“To what end? ” said Sitwell. “Anyway, it could have happened after. Maybe another prisoner, or even one of his captors.” When the doctor looked at him with raised eyebrows he shrugged and said, “Fate can be cruel…” 

“In any case, it’s obvious that he’s got some significant physical enhancements. We should—” 

They all stopped talking when the sound of a sucked-in breath, and then a moan, drifted up from the bed where Barnes was strapped down. He was coming around already. 

“Man, that should have knocked him out for hours,” said the redhead. He sounded unnerved. 

They all stared at the man on the bed, waiting to see if he would make another sound. 

“Might just be an involuntary—” 

The doctor aborted the rest of her sentence when they all saw Barnes’s eyelids slowly blink open. He didn’t move his head or struggle against the restraints, but he was definitely awake. His eyes simply stared— maybe unseeing— at the ceiling above him as he took in a few ragged breaths. 

The sound that finally left his mouth was rough— his throat scratchy— and barely louder than a whisper, but the single word formed by his lips was undeniably intelligible, devastating in its simplicity: 

“_Please_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got one more chapter to go 'til Darcy. Hang in there.
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  



	4. Chapter 4

“_Please_…” 

They all heard it, but it was Coulson who stepped forward instinctively. Before he could reach the bedside, a firm hand on his bicep stopped him. He turned his head to see Sitwell standing there, a strong look on his face that said, _Don’t_. 

He didn’t need to say it aloud— his unspoken concern easy enough to read. 

Coulson nodded to him silently, not bothering to take offense at the implication that his professional judgement could be in jeopardy. This was an unusual situation, to say the least, but they both knew how this needed to go; in spite of his personal feelings, Coulson would stick to the program until there was significant cause to do otherwise. They needed to get as much information from the man as they could, while revealing as little as possible. To determine whether he’d been compromised, and by whom. 

Sitwell released him, and Coulson glanced around the room, looking for a chair. 

“Could someone— ” 

He didn’t need to finish the sentence; the female tech was already heading over to the adjoining lab to grab one of the rolling stools. She was back with it in less than a minute, and she set it down next to Coulson, who nodded his thanks. He rolled the stool over to the hospital bed, pulling up on his pant legs before sitting down. 

Barnes was lying there passively; his eyes had drifted shut again, and he hadn’t spoken another word— he looked like he was asleep— but just a few seconds later, his eyes blinked open: slowly, heavily. He was staring at the ceiling again, and then he pulled in a breath and held it. 

He clearly knew that someone was sitting beside him— was, in his own way, acknowledging it, though he hadn’t turned his head or made any other attempt to speak. He seemed to be waiting for something. 

It was very quiet in the room, and Coulson was aware of the rest of them, standing back, at a polite distance, but actively watching and waiting as well. The entire room seemed to be holding its breath, along with Barnes. 

Coulson cleared his throat. “Mister—” He stopped abruptly, cutting himself off, and almost smiled at the near-slip. 

In spite of the tacit assurances he’d given Sitwell just a moment ago, he’d almost said ‘_Mister Barnes_’ right off the bat, like some kind of rookie, fresh out of the academy. He took a moment to regather himself before starting again. 

“Soldier,” he said instead, opting for a generic form of address, and one that he assumed would be familiar to the man, in some capacity. It would have been the way a nurse would have addressed him, in a field hospital, during the war. 

Barnes’s crystal-blue eyes darted to him, and Coulson could see that the word had agitated him. Why? 

“Can you tell us your name?” he said. He was speaking in a very relaxed, soothing manner, even as he honed in on the man’s face, watching for any tells. 

The question—simple as it was— wasn’t what he’d been expecting: that much was obvious. And deeper, beneath the confusion, there was fear. Anger, too— but mostly fear. His legs moved a little under the ankle straps, as though verifying that they were actually there, holding him down. 

Coulson spoke instinctively, hoping to reassure him. “We’re not the enemy,” he said, feeling stupid even as he said it: it sounded like something the villain would say in a cheap spy novel. He tried again, speaking more plainly: “We’re not going to hurt you. I apologize for the restraints. We’ll remove them as soon as we can be sure you don’t pose a threat to our people. Your confusion is understandable, but you were… becoming violent.” 

The man’s eyes fell shut again. His reply was so quiet that Coulson had to lean in to hear him: “Don’t… don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

“Good,” said Coulson, sitting up again. “That’s good.” He repeated his first question: “Can you tell us your name?” 

Barnes licked his lips and rasped out a single word, instead: “Water.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. A second later, he added, more quietly: “Please.” 

Coulson snapped his fingers to the side, and then held his hand out, waiting, while someone scurried to get it. 

“You—” continued Barnes, while they were waiting for it. “All of you. Speaking English.” He swallowed again, grinding out the word with difficulty, his throat sounding very dry now. “American?” 

“Yes,” said Coulson. “We’re American. Does that surprise you?” 

“Where am I,” he said, not answering the question, and Coulson thought, _Okay_. The man was disoriented, maybe amnesic— but he wasn’t stupid. 

“This is an American-operated facility,” he replied, choosing his words carefully. 

“Year,” said Barnes, his voice still raspy, and just then the tall guy returned with a styrofoam cup of water, a plastic lid fitted to its top, a straw with a bent tip poking out of it. 

Coulson took the cup and considered Barnes’s position on the bed— completely supine, and strapped down tight. 

“Can we raise him up a little?” he said, addressing the techs behind him. 

The tall guy glanced to the doctor, getting her go-ahead, and then pressed a button on a panel set into the wall nearby. The upper half of the bed began to lift up, raising Barnes from a flattened position to something more upright, the hydraulics making an ugly, mechanized buzzing sound. 

Coulson could see panic leaking into the man’s eyes, and he waved his hand silently toward the tall guy, gesturing to shut it off. The noise ceased along with the movement of the bed, which was now bent up at about a forty-five-degree angle. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Just trying to make you more comfortable.” It sounded hollow, considering the way they’d forcibly drugged him and then strapped him down, but Barnes’s agitation seemed to lesson somewhat at the words. 

It’d almost seemed as though he’d been bracing for something. Was it the sound? The motion? Maybe all of it, combined with the restraints, unlocking some kind of sensory memory— and not a nice one… 

“Here’s the water,” said Coulson. He leaned forward a bit, holding the cup close to Barnes’s face, using his fingers to help place the end of the straw between the man’s lips. 

He took a few pulls on the straw, his Adam’s apple bobbing again as he swallowed, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips, and then his eyes fell shut as he exhaled and turned his head away slightly. 

Coulson pulled the cup back and waited. 

After a minute, the man turned his face back to profile, his eyes opening again. 

“M’sorry,” he said, his voice less rough now. He was still speaking slowly— maybe from the effects of the drug, or as a consequence of not having spoken aloud for a some time. Maybe a bit of both. 

“Thought—” His head jerked a little to the side, almost like a motor tic, and he shut his eyes again for a few seconds. “Don’t know…” He stopped and then tried again, the words clumsy. “Don’t know… what I thought.” He took a few measured breaths, seemed to be timing them: a steady, slow, in-and-out. “I can’t… why can’t I…” His jaw flexed a little as he ground his teeth together. “I don’t remember.” 

“There’s no hurry,” said Coulson, his voice friendly, patient. He’d dodged the man’s earlier query about the year, and thought about what to say, if it was raised again. “Is there anything you do remember? Any friends? Family we might contact?” 

Barnes responded with another question, his tone betraying nothing: “Where am I?” 

“You’re safe,” said Coulson, and then he repeated the earlier information, adding a little to it. “You’re in an American facility, overseas.” He tried the original question again, rewording it slightly this time. “Do you remember your name?” 

It seemed like he wasn’t going to answer— he just stared blankly ahead, pressing his lips together, breathing through his nose, his jaw clenching a few more times. Perhaps he didn’t know. Coulson was going to move on— try something else— when Barnes’s brow pinched together, his lips parting as he took a breath to speak. 

Again, Coulson waited him out patiently. Made himself play the part of the good listener. 

“John…” Barnes formed the word slowly, trying out the sounds. He tilted his head, considering. “Jim? Maybe?” He breathed out heavily then, his eyes losing focus. “Why don’t I know…” 

Coulson was holding his breath— watching as the man’s face went through another series of frustrated, confused expressions, still seeking the answer. He could hear a quiet movement behind him, and he knew it was Sitwell, fidgeting. Nervous. For an agent as high up in rank as he was, the man had never been very good at hiding his emotions. 

“No,” said Barnes, sounding sure about something, for the first time. “Not Jim.” He was still staring straight ahead, squinting a little now, as though the wall at the opposite end of the room held all the answers, if only he could focus on it. He hadn’t looked at Coulson once, except for that initial flinch, when he’d addressed him as _Soldier_. Now his head turned slightly— angling toward him without making direct eye contact. 

“John,” he said softly, repeating his first, instinctive choice. “I think. I remember that name.” 

Coulson nodded. “Okay. Last name?” 

The man closed his eyes again, a fatigued look on his face. “I can’t— I don’t—” 

“It’s okay,” said Coulson, shifting his weight on the stool, hating— _hating_— this need to be obtuse… to lie to this man. “We’re going to help you sort it out,” he said. “You’ve been through… what we can only assume has been quite an ordeal. Do you remember anything else?” 

For the first time, Barnes turned his head to take in the rest of the room, eyes noticing the other people there, standing at a discreet distance, but definitely listening— observing. His eyes lingered on the doctor and the techs with their white coats, the tall guy’s lapels still streaked with blood, and his breathing picked up noticeably again— his arm twisted in the wrist-cuff, adding tension to the restraint. 

Coulson swiveled around on the chair. “Could we maybe take a few minutes alone?” he said. 

Matheson glanced to Sitwell, who nodded his agreement, and the trio of technicians followed the doctor over to the adjoining lab, out of Barnes’s line of sight. Sitwell remained in the room, but moved back a little, leaning against the opposite wall. He could still hear the conversation, but he wasn’t an encroaching presence any more. 

“Do you remember anything else?” said Coulson, keeping his voice gentle. He could feel the man wanting to trust him, and it made him feel something sour inside. He tried not to think of the trading cards. 

“There was… a war?” said Barnes, posing it like a question. Like a child, testing out an answer, afraid to commit to it. 

Coulson nodded. “Yes. You were… it appears that you were… captured at some point. Held prisoner, for an unknown period of time.” 

“I think I killed a lotta people,” said Barnes, almost whispering it. He pressed his lips together again, exhaling through his nose, and then looked down. “Guess it makes sense. If what you’re sayin’… you’re sayin’ I was a… soldier.” 

His head did that little jerk— the motor tic again. He seemed to be unaware he was doing it, or maybe he was trying to ignore it. 

“Anything else? Any… images, or… anything that would help tell us who you are…” 

“You say I was captured,” he said, looking at Coulson again. “By who. Was I—” He shut his eyes. “I can see… no— more like… feel. I can feel… remember… think I remember bein’ strapped down. Like this, or…” He made an exasperated sound, followed by the most straightforward stream of words he’d said since he’d regained consciousness: 

“Fuck, I don’t know. Feel like I’m just guessin’. Maybe I’m gettin’ it all wrong.” He twisted his head to look at the left side of his body, and it was subtle, but Coulson could see the surprise there— almost like he was realizing for the first time that he was missing an arm. 

“How did— where—” 

“We don’t have that information,” said Coulson, glad to say something that wasn’t an evasion. “I’m sorry.” And then, “I apologize again for the restraints.” He took a breath and moved onto the next question. “John,” he said gently, and then repeated it: tried to recapture the man’s attention; he was still staring at the metal cap on his shoulder. “John.” 

Barnes’s eyes were watering a little as he breathed through his mouth, his chest rising and falling— trying to keep it together. “M’sorry,” he mumbled, looking away. 

“It’s all right,” said Coulson, and he smiled another friendly smile, instinctively, hating himself a little for being good at this. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. This isn’t a test.” He hesitated, and then committed. “And I’m the one who should be apologizing; I haven’t even introduced myself. My name is Phil. Phil Coulson. I work for an organization called SHIELD.” 

He heard Sitwell adjust his feet again, somewhere behind him— probably disagreeing with his revealing that information before it was strictly necessary. But then the whole concept of _necessary_ was highly subjective: he was working to gain the man’s trust. Coulson pressed on. 

“John, are you aware of any… enhancements you may have experienced before your capture? Mutations? Gifts from a word-bonding?” 

Barnes looked over to the shoulder cap again, shaking his head as he did so. “No,” he said. “I don’t understand why— I don’t think—” His head jerked again. “Could I have another… m’sorry… some more water…” 

“Of course.” 

Coulson picked up the styrofoam cup, held it for him again, waited while Barnes— John— craned his head forward as well as he could and took a few more pulls on it. He released it when he was done, and let out a sigh while Coulson put the cup back on the bedside table. 

“S’that why,” said Barnes, and then he paused for a few seconds before finishing the question. “Why I can’t remember nothin’?” 

Coulson wasn’t sure what he meant, but Barnes asked another question before he could seek clarification… 

“The people who had me,” he said, and turned to look at Coulson again. “What’d they do to me.” 

“We’re trying to determine that,” said Coulson, and then he stopped, because he felt a hand on his back. Sitwell was there: suggesting, perhaps, that it was time to take a break. He was probably right. He rolled the stool back and stood up, brushed off his pants— an automatic, if unnecessary behavior. 

“Give it time,” he said, trying to sound kind, encouraging. He had to actively resist the urge to put his hand on the man’s shoulder, in an offering of comfort. He would have, but based on all the evidence— the man’s body language, his involuntary reactions, his manner of keeping his eyes averted from the person speaking to him… it all added up to a long period of maltreatment. The man had almost certainly been tortured at some point; being touched without invitation would likely provoke further anxiety. 

Barnes nodded but didn’t close his eyes this time— just stared blankly at the wall again, opposite his bed. There was an unnerving tension about him— almost like he was afraid to breathe too loudly. Afraid to claim any unnecessary space, even with his own air. 

Coulson wished he could say something— anything that might help. Wished he could tell this man who he really was— to let him know he’d been cared for. That he’d had friends and family and brothers-in-arms for whom he’d been willing to lay down his life. That he was considered a hero by those few who still remembered. 

All of that would have to wait. 

“Phil,” said Sitwell, his hand coming to rest again on his back, this time like a kindness— pulling him away from his thoughts, and from the tragedy lying there in the bed… from the unease that hung heavy in the room like a foul odor. 

“Keep me informed,” was all he said to Sitwell before he left, feeling sick inside, knowing as surely as he’d ever known anything, that something very terrible had happened to James Buchanan Barnes. 

And now maybe they— the Good Guys— were perpetuating this injury, out of a very real need to be prudent, and cautious, and protect the interests of their own people… 

And while all of that was necessary and proper, Coulson couldn’t help feeling that it was nevertheless, at the end of the day, undeniably— irrefutably— _wrong_. 

* * *

“You okay?” 

Coulson was sitting across from May, his dinner fork in his hand, a twirl of pasta wrapped around the tines, ready to go, but he wasn’t lifting it to his mouth. He was a million miles away. His face had betrayed none of what was happening inside, but it was pretty obvious. 

She knew he was thinking about Barnes. They hadn’t spoken of it overtly since the container had been unloaded from the Quinjet a week ago. Everyone on the jet had been ordered to silence, and May had been doing her best to comply. Nevertheless, it hadn’t been difficult to put it together— between the subconscious vibrations they shared, and her mate’s sudden interest in going through all of his old war memorabilia… 

“They’re not going to tell him,” she said, suddenly picking up on the thought that was burdening him. 

“No,” he replied, the word soft, and he set the fork down, the pasta no longer appealing, though he knew he was hungry, beneath his agitation. May’s words brought it back to him— the earlier conversation with Sitwell, when he’d gotten word of the plan… 

* * *

“We’re not going to tell him,” he’d said, smiling reflexively through the discomfort brought on by the realization, having guessed at the part that Sitwell had been reluctant to say straight out. 

“The decision for now,” said Sitwell, “from what I understand…” He was distracted, shuffling some papers around on his desk. “They, uh… they think it would be unwise.” 

They were alone in Sitwell’s office, discussing the plan for Barnes, who’d finally been moved out of medical and into a containment room. He was no longer being fully restrained; he had the freedom to move about in the small room— even had limited access to approved media and educational files— but he was still, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner, until they decided what was to be done with him. 

His exact status was still murky, the purpose and details of his former captivity still a complete unknown. Sitwell had dispatched a fresh team to clear and catalogue the rest of the warehouse in Kazakhstan, but based on the reports thus far, they’d turned up nothing to help solve the mystery of who’d left Barnes there, or why. 

“You catch up with Fury yet?” said Sitwell. 

Coulson had been trying to contact the director for over a week— he’d been off the grid, unavailable for consultation in the matter— so they’d gone above him, to Secretary Pierce himself. Sitwell already knew all of that, being the one who’d reported to Pierce, but he was asking anyway. 

“No,” said Coulson. 

“Well,” said Sitwell, finally looking up from the stacks of papers, “He’ll get up to speed soon enough. They want to place him— Barnes, that is— with you, when you transfer over to Pegasus.” 

It’d been a surprise. Not the transfer— that’d been coming on for some time— but the moving of Barnes to the top-secret facility as well. 

Sitwell picked up a ballpoint pen, tapped it a few times against the desktop. “I suppose they felt that your… personal interest in the man would serve him well, should he begin to regain his memories. That you’d be in the best position to watch over him. And, of course, keep an eye on him, in the case that he has any yet untriggered… directives.” 

It was reasonable; there was just no way to know for sure whether or not the man was a sleeper agent. Even Barnes himself probably didn’t know. He wasn’t lying about not remembering— on that point they were in agreement, at least… as well as on the principle that it was unethical to keep him imprisoned indefinitely, when the truth might never come to light. The best option— for all of them— was to guide the man into a situation that would allow him to build a new life, while also keeping close tabs on him. 

“We, uh… we’ve prepared a background story for him,” said Sitwell, picking up the file on his desk. He handed it over to Coulson. “Everything he needs to start over is in there.” 

“What are we calling him?” asked Coulson, as he flipped open the file, took in the basic contents: state-issued ID, social security card, birth certificate… 

“John Brennan. Middle name Michael.’” 

When Coulson looked up at him, hiking his eyebrows, Sitwell nodded with a look of concession. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I had the same reaction. But my guy in linguistics knows what he’s doing— said it’d be comforting: just familiar enough to feel right to him, and he’d already given us ‘John’…” 

Coulson glanced at the newly-minted ID, tucked into a plastic sleeve, and then snapped the file shut again. “Thought we were keeping this inside a narrow range,” he said, mildly. “Linguistics?” 

Sitwell shrugged. “Needed the documents; wanted to get it right. It’s fine; my guy is solid.” Then, almost like a challenge: “What about May? How much does she know?” 

Coulson blinked, his face a perfect mask. “Just what she could guess, from the time on the jet. She knows better than to ask any direct questions. You know that.” 

They held each other’s eyes for another few seconds, and then Sitwell broke away, looking down at the papers on his desk again. “Well,” he said, a perfunctory sound to it. “If you’ve got no objection, I’ll just finish up the paper for the transfer, and he’ll be all yours.” 

* * *

“You gonna eat that spaghetti, or just contemplate it,” said May, and Coulson let go of the silverware entirely and leaned back in his chair, sighing. 

“He’s being transferred to Pegasus, with us,” he said. 

“What’s he gonna do there?” May moved her own empty plate out of the way, and then leaned forward to nab her partner’s abandoned meal, sliding the plate across the table to her own place-setting. 

“Something benign,” said Coulson. “Service job. Maintenance, maybe. They’ve had him tinkering with parts down in that room: weapons, gadgets… seeing what’s familiar to him, how well he knows his way around the tech from different eras. He’s good with his hands. Well— _hand_, I should say.” 

He tapped the fingers of his own right hand on the table rhythmically. “They don’t trust him.” 

“And you do?” she said, around a mouthful of pasta. 

He took a moment to respond. “My gut’s telling me he’s the victim here,” he said. “But… a person can be a victim and still be… dangerous. But I have to give him a chance. If there’s any chance he could…” 

He didn’t finish the statement, and stopped drumming his fingers on the table. “I won’t give up on him,” he said. He sounded uncharacteristically sad, and May set down her fork and swallowed. 

She reached across the table to grasp his hand, squeezed it once. “I know,” she said, softly, and he could read it in her thoughts— that she understood. Approved: if not of the need to lie to the man, then at least of Phil’s resolve to quietly advocate for him, in whatever way he could. And for that, at least, he had some small measure of comfort. 

* * *

Coulson knocked on the heavy steel door once, as a courtesy, before putting in the code that granted him entry to the containment room on the lower level. The locked disengaged with a buzz, and he turned the metal handle on the door and pushed it open. 

Barnes was sitting at the simple desk inside the one-room space, working on reassembling several old handguns from a pile of scattered parts, not all of them correct for the weapons. He looked up when Coulson entered— put the parts down, and wiped his flesh hand on his pants, beneath the desk. He was wearing a crude, temporary prosthetic arm, the shoulder fitting over the metal cap on his left side, held in place by a simple chest-strap harness. The hand was the hook-and-cable type, and he was resting it on the desk, where it was almost camouflaged among the other pieces of metal. 

“Sorry to intrude,” said Coulson, looking around the room. It was like a glorified prison cell, with a narrow mattress on a cheap metal bedframe pushed into one corner, an e-reader tablet lying on it, the screen dark. A toilet and sink were out in the open, along the opposite wall. The desk was in the center of the room, and another chair sat empty at it, across from Barnes. 

“Mind if I sit?” 

“Be my guest,” said Barnes, leaning back in his chair a little. 

Coulson sat down, set the file on the desk, and then glanced at the pile of metal parts on the table. “They putting you to work?” he joked, even though he already knew why they’d given him the box of parts. 

“Nah,” said Barnes, looking down at one of the partially-assembled pistols. “Just seein’ what I can do. What I know. Figured it might help me remember somethin’.” 

“Has it?” 

“Not really,” he said. “My hands know what to do, but…” He looked up at Coulson. “I remember you, though. From the… after the…” 

It’d been over a week since the initial interrogation; Sitwell’s medical team had been looking after him since then, continuing to run their tests, and seeing to his basic needs. He’d gotten a haircut and a shave; was wearing fresh, clean clothing, and in spite of some dark circles under his eyes, looked vastly improved from the condition he’d been in a week before. 

Notwithstanding the prosthesis, he looked so much like the Bucky Barnes on the trading card now that Coulson found it difficult not to stare at him. He didn’t know how others couldn’t see it. It was a rare case of ignorance working to their advantage, he supposed. 

“Coulson,” he said, reminding Barnes of his name, in case he’d forgotten. “Phil Coulson.” 

“Apparently I know my way around one of these,” said Barnes, picking up the pistol. “Guess that makes sense. They say I was probably in Afghanistan… maybe special forces, but they can’t find any records that match. Like whoever I was… it’s been buried. I dunno, maybe I knew too much.” He almost laughed. “Ironic, ain’t it.” 

Coulson allowed a smile. 

“I been readin’ up on it,” Barnes continued. “Afghanistan. Some of it… don’t wanna say it’s familiar, but it ain’t… _unfamiliar_…” 

He finally acknowledged the file on the table, his eyes flicking to it. “You got some information for me?” 

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” said Coulson. “I’m guessing you’ll agree that you can’t exactly go around calling yourself ‘John Doe’… so we’ve created a temporary identity for you. Until you get your memory back.” 

Barnes blinked, silent for a moment. “And if I don’t?” he said. “If I never get it back?” 

“Then use it," he said. "Use the identity to move forward. Make a life for yourself.” 

He seemed to consider it— pressed his lips together and swallowed, and then reached out with his flesh hand to take it. Once he had it, he opened it up without hesitation, holding it open with the metal hook on the prosthesis, and began to scan the documents inside. 

“John Brennan,” he said, and furrowed his brow. “Sounds right. Familiar, even.” He made a scoffing sound. “But that’s stupid, right? It’s a made-up name. ‘Cept for the first part, I guess.” 

Coulson swallowed down the guilt he felt, in allowing the man to be enticed by a familiarity that was akin to a cheap parlor trick— the name a complete fabrication, yet specifically designed to light up some key neurons… 

“That’s good,” he said, and then moved onto the bigger issue: “The name’s not all we can offer you. If you’re interested, we can set you up with a job, help you get back on your feet. Something low-stress, suited to your facility with…” He gestured to the handgun parts: “This type of equipment.” His eyes moved to the old-fashioned prosthesis. “We could definitely get you a better arm. Go from there. See what else you’re good at.” 

Barnes closed the file and left it lying there on the table. “When you say, ‘we’,” he said. “Who exactly are you talkin’ about? The Army?” 

Coulson leaned back in the chair. “Not exactly, John.” 

The man raised an eyebrow and again made a sound that might have passed for a laugh, but it was over too quickly. He rubbed his flesh hand against his forehead. “Not exactly,” he repeated. “You gonna tell me, ‘what exactly’, or you gonna keep it a secret?” He shook his head ruefully. “Seems like this place is full of ‘em, if you ask me…” 

Phil smiled: just a little one— maybe he couldn’t trust Bucky Barnes, or John Michael Brennan— not yet… but he couldn’t help it: he already liked the man— this version of him, whoever he was. 

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he said, and then he leaned forward a little, laced his fingers together on the table. “What would you think of working for SHIELD?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	5. Chapter 5

* * *

_October, 2011_  
_Mojave Desert, California_  
_Coordinates: Classified_

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

Darcy Lewis glanced up from her desk, the cellphone sandwiched precariously between her ear and her shoulder, and caught Janelle giving her the stink-eye from her own cubicle across the aisle— offended, no doubt, by Darcy’s crude language. Janelle’s desk was populated with little plaques and signs hanging from grosgrain ribbons, engraved or painted with platitudes like ‘_Love Lives Here_’, or ‘_In All Things be Grateful_.’ 

Darcy wanted to ask if she should be grateful for the urinary-tract infection she’d barely dodged last week that had made it burn every time she peed. Knowing Janelle, the answer would be ‘yes’, because there was always someone who had it worse. Who would be happy— _grateful_— to only be dealing with a raging UTI. Well, okay then. It was hard to argue with that kind of reasoning, but Darcy wasn’t interested in a philosophy based on guilt. 

She used her feet to pull and swivel the seat of her office chair around, so that her back was facing out, both of her hands still busy with the stubborn nutrition-bar wrapper she was trying, and failing, to rip open. “Bitch,” she added under her breath. 

“Yup,” her friend was saying, on the other end of the line; “I checked on it myself, and it’s true: those assholes on the executive board are pulling my funding.” 

Doctor Jane Foster’s voice was an angry rasp in the speaker still squished against Darcy’s ear, her words sounding tinny and far away, even though geographically-speaking, they weren’t more than a day’s drive away from each other. The cellular service here was fantastic, considering the desolate location— working for SHIELD had its perks— but something about the security system made incoming calls sound like they were coming from the other side of the globe, or the bottom of the ocean. Darcy had no doubt that everything they were saying was being recorded. Not that that caused her to censor herself: If people wanted to hear about Jane’s funding problems and Darcy’s latest vibrator, they could go right ahead. 

“Who’s a bitch?” the voice said, changing the subject. “Is it that lady across the aisle again?” 

“Yeah,” said Darcy, quietly. “I swear, some of these sanctimonious SHIELD lifers have the biggest two-by-four shoved up their ass. Please shoot me if I’m not out of here before I hit forty-five. I should have enough saved up by then.” 

Darcy’s current pipe dream was to find some people to go in on a tropical beach-bar with her. To fuck off out of this corporate nightmare of a culture, and just live each day as it came. Make piña coladas for people in tiny scraps of clothes in some place that had a high ratio of rainbows to smog. 

“Forty-five,” said Jane, sounding surprised. “More like thirty-five. Okay, forty.” There was a pause. “You know you always have a place with me,” she said. 

Darcy couldn’t help smiling: it was a nice thought, impractical though it was. “I know,” she said. “And I love you. But you know I can’t.” 

They’d been through this before: unless one of Jane’s research grants suddenly started providing for a salaried assistant, there was just no way she could compete with all that SHIELD had to offer. The dental and vision plans alone made it impossible to say ‘no’, and the free birth control was definitely a plus… even if she had to put up with tight-asses like Janelle on a daily basis. 

“So what’s going on with you guys?” said Jane. “How’s Eric?” 

“Oh, you know,” said Darcy. She’d finally managed to get the wrapper open on one end of the bar, and she took a tentative bite of the— she hesitated to call it ‘food’, even in her own mind… ‘supplement’ maybe? It looked like a slightly sticky, rectangular prism of concentrated baby shit. 

“Eric’s Eric,” she said, talking around the test-nibble. “Busy. I hardly ever see him anymore. They’ve got him working on some super-secret thing he’s not allowed to talk about. I mean, that’s half the stuff that goes on here anyway, but this one is super-_duper_ secret. He seems really tired.” 

She frowned as the taste of the nutrition bar bloomed on the back of her tongue. “Ew,” she said aloud, halting her chewing. 

“What is it?” said Jane. 

“This protein bar Kim told me to try. Told me they were her secret weapon to hotness.” 

“Is she the cute one? With the butt?” 

“Yuh huh,” said Darcy, and then she made another face and spat what was left in her mouth into the palm of her hand, and then shook it off into the wastebasket under her desk. “God, gross,” she said. “No amount of hotness is worth eating shit like that.” 

She wiped her hand on her pants and scooted the chair back a little so she could lean down and open the lower desk drawer, felt around behind the hanging files with her free hand, and pulled out her stash of nacho-cheese Doritos. 

She heard Jane chuckle on the other end of the line— Darcy enjoyed entertaining her friend and former boss with colorful descriptions of her co-workers. She’d been working as a full-time SHIELD employee for a little more than a year now, having been recruited, along with Dr. Selvig, shortly after the events involving Thor and the Destroyer. Jane had been the only one from their little group to refuse, not wanting her work to be hijacked by anyone having any ties, covert or otherwise, to any government entity. 

The secret base in the desert had become Darcy’s new home; like everyone else who worked at the massive facility, she even lived on-site— only signing out a vehicle for the occasional run to the tiny gas station twenty miles out, to stock up on junk food, or to stop at the little roadside bar next door to it, to pick up a bottle of something stronger than the selection of craft beers offered during the cafeteria’s dinner service. 

“Any luck in the dude department?” said Jane. “Tell me everything, and don’t hold back on the sleazy details.” 

Darcy sighed. “Still no word from Thor?” 

“Nope. So give me all your smut, so I can live it vicariously.” 

Thor had said Jane’s words over a year ago, after falling from the sky— linking her to him, body and soul, forever— but as it turned out, Asgardians didn’t, themselves, have soulmarks. Which was probably a good thing, considering their longevity: even those deeply in love would be hard-pressed to remain happy with a single person for millennia… 

And while he was truly devoted to Jane, it just wasn’t the same for him. During their first, forced separation, when Thor had broken the Bifrost, he’d suffered from missing her, to be sure— but it’d been abstract: nothing, compared to the physical torment Darcy had watched her friend go through. 

The separation pangs were something nobody spoke openly of; or if they did, nobody really believed the stories— assuming them to be hyperbole, for dramatic effect— until they’d experienced it personally: a bit like childbirth, in that respect. 

“It’s all true,” Jane had gasped as she’d writhed on her bed, sweating, her face a grimace as she’d breathed through the pain. “God, it _hurts_.” The pain, the surges of unfulfilled longing, both physical and emotional, had come on in ever-intensifying waves after a mere week of no physical contact with her mate. 

“It’s not worth it,” she’d cried. “God, I feel like— like some kind of animal,” she’d moaned, the last thing she’d said for hours, as she’d curled up into the fetal position, clutching a blanket that still carried his scent. 

After a solid week of physical and emotional hell— followed by a good six weeks of minor aftershocks— the ache had finally waned a bit, only to be fully re-experienced, after his brief visit a few months ago, when his people had finally tested their repairs to the Bifrost. Now he was gone again, attending to some kind of requisite princely duties, with no indication of when he’d return. 

Darcy wasn’t sure what good it’d do to talk about her crappy love-life, but she would have, if she’d had anything to report. 

“I wish,” she said, just before she shoved a handful of Doritos into her mouth, took a few seconds to crunch them down, and then continued. “I haven’t seen any action since the last time we talked. I think this guy I keep seeing at the gym wants to ask me out, though. I keep catching him checking out my ass.” 

Somehow Jane had managed to understand all of that, in spite of Darcy’s mouthful of chips, and she said, “You talk to him yet?” 

“Yeah,” said Darcy. “It was a miss— I didn’t say his words, and he _definitely_ didn’t say mine. But that’s okay. I get the feeling he’d be up for some no-pressure hanky-panky. God knows I would be.” 

“I mean, it’s gotta be better than that match service you were using,” said Jane. 

Before signing on with SHIELD, Darcy hadn’t been above finding dates with the _Soul’oh_ app: a popular online hookup service for people who were blanks, who’d lost or been rejected by their soulmate, or who hadn’t found them yet, but were looking for… companionship, in the meantime. 

“Definitely,” said Darcy, even though the app had yielded a number of pretty fun nights. At least the filters were pretty good, letting you find a person or persons who were on the same page, philosophically… 

Before she could elaborate on her new plans to recruit the gym guy for some cheap and meaningless sex, she heard an exclamation from the guy on the other side of her cubicle: “_Holy shit! No fucking way!_” 

She could hear similar interjections from all around, and a general murmuring throughout the accounting department. A couple of her co-workers jogged past her cubicle, and somewhere in the distance, there was some excited shouting. 

She swiveled her chair around again, and looked across the aisle: Janelle was gone, her '_Do All Things With Love_' travel mug abandoned at her desk. There were more raised voices from down the hall, and then another few people scurried by. 

“Hang on,” said Darcy. “Something’s happening over here.” She took the phone away from her ear, and beckoned to the next person who passed by: a nerdy-looking guy with curly hair and an ill-fitting suit. 

“Hey,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. He looked flustered, like he wasn’t used to being talked to by pretty girls. “What’s going on?” 

“You didn’t hear?” he said, glancing down the hall, like he was late for something. 

“No,” she said. “What is it?” 

“They found him,” he said, a bit breathless. “They found Captain America.” 

* * *

It was all anyone talked about, for days: Steve Rogers— Captain America— had been found buried in the icy plains of Greenland, still inside the _Valkyrie_: the futuristic bomber he’d captured and crash-landed deliberately… sacrificing his own life, to save countless others. Apparently global warming had finally melted enough of the massive ice sheet to expose the very tip of one of the aircraft’s wings. 

But finding him wasn’t the crazy part. The real news— the insanity that had already been leaked, was running 24/7 on all the news programs, was the talk of everyone at the base, and likely everywhere else on the globe— was that he was still alive. They’d thawed him out and… 

Somehow, the super-serum that’d transformed him from a ninety-pound weakling into the beefcake hero who’d walloped a good share of Nazis in the 1940s, had also preserved his living body for all those years inside the frozen wastes, in a kind of unintentional cryostasis. 

“I wonder if he’ll do a world tour, or something,” said Andy, who was sitting next to Darcy in the cafeteria, scrolling through the news feed on his phone. “God, I had no idea Captain America was so _hot_. I always saw him as like… a grandpa or something.” 

“The news said he was only twenty-six or twenty-seven when he died,” said Darcy. “Younger than you.” 

“I know, but… you know how those old pictures make everyone seem…” 

“It’s just their clothes,” said Darcy. “They dressed nicer, so they look more sincere than us, or something. If you put them in a bunch of cheap-ass T-shirts with crap all over them, they’d look young and stupid just like us.” 

“I’d pay thirty bucks to see that guy in person,” said Andy. “Shake his hand.” He scrolled through a few more pictures on his phone. “Maybe even fifty.” 

Kim, sitting across from them, snorted. “Who are you kidding; you’d pay a couple hundred, at least. More, if they could guarantee the handshake.” She took a big swallow of her sparkling water and said, “They should get that guy in maintenance to do the tour with him; he’d make a great Bucky Barnes.” 

“Who?” 

“Bucky Barnes,” said Kim, repeating the name. When Andy gave her a look that said _you’re gonna have to give me more_, she said, “You know, the guy who was his friend and then served with him in the war? The hot one?” 

“There’s a guy who served with Captain America who’s hotter than Captain America?” said Andy. He sounded skeptical. “And his name was ‘Bucky’?” He shook his head. “You’re makin’ this up.” 

Kim looked at Darcy, clearly hoping to be backed up, but Darcy just shrugged her shoulders— just as clueless— while she took a long slurp of her ice coffee. 

“You guys are cretins,” said Kim. “Here, gimme that,” she added, reaching over to swipe Andy’s smartphone out of his hand. 

“Hey,” he protested. “I was using that…” 

“This’ll just take a second,” said Kim, opening a browser and doing a Google image search for _Bucky Barnes_. “There,” she said, tapping on a photo and handing the phone back, the screen facing toward her friends. “Him.” 

Darcy leaned in to look at the blurry black-and-white image along with Andy. “Whoa,” she said. “There’s a guy who looks like _that_, working in maintenance?” 

“Well, not _exactly_ like that,” said Kim. “But close enough.” She took another drink of water. “Like, if they dressed him for the part? Covered up his arm and did his hair and stuff…” 

“What do you mean, cover up his arm,” said Darcy. “He have a crazy tattoo or something?” 

“No,” said Kim. “He’s got a fake arm. Lost it in the service, or something. I don’t really know. Just assuming, ‘cause you can practically smell the PTSD on him. I probably shouldn’t assume, though. God, maybe he had bone cancer or something.” 

Darcy had fully claimed the cellphone for herself, and was staring at the photo of the 1940s guy. He was handsome, all right— dark hair, sparkling eyes, _come-fuck-me_ smile… definitely Darcy’s type. “You friends with him or something?” she asked. “The maintenance guy?” 

“God, no,” said Kim. “I don’t think he has any friends. He’s like this creepy loner. I think he even sleeps down there, instead of in the residential wing like the rest of us. Probably has body parts hidden in bags under his bed.” 

Darcy laughed and handed the phone back to Andy, so he could resume his browsing of the Captain-America-related thirst-posts. “Okay, now I’m intrigued,” she said. “I’m gonna have to figure out an excuse to go take a look at Sexy McMurder-Man myself…” 

“You could do it today, if you want,” said Kim, matter-of-factly. “I got a whole bag of departmental phones that need servicing; was supposed to take them down there after lunch. You could do it for me. Seriously, you should check him out.” 

“Really?” said Darcy, suddenly feeling uncertain. Kim had done a pretty good job of making the guy sound like some kind of inadvertently-attractive goblin, lurking in the dungeons, waiting for his next victim… 

“Come by my desk in a while,” she said, standing up with her lunch tray. “I’ll hook you up.” 

“Okay,” said Darcy. And then, “Hey, I tried that bar you gave me.” 

“Yeah?” said Kim, as she pushed in her chair. “What’d you think?” 

“Fucking disgusting,” said Darcy. 

Kim threw her head back and laughed. “I knew I could count on you for an honest review,” she said. “Yeah, they’re gross. But they’re worth it.” 

“I disagree,” said Darcy, making a face. 

Kim just winked at her and then sashayed away, tray in hand. Darcy and Andy both watched her ass the entire time, as the physically-gifted woman made her way over to the tray-return by the cafeteria’s exit. 

“That is a superlative ass,” said Andy, and Darcy made a hum of approval. Neither of them was interested in Kim that way— both Darcy and Andy were very much into guys— but a great ass like that demanded respectful appreciation, no matter one’s orientation. 

* * *

Darcy stepped into the elevator, switched the jumbo plastic Ziplock full of dead work phones into her left hand, and pressed the ‘B3’ button. A second later the car jolted and began to go down. 

She glanced again at the piece of scrap paper in her hand: _John Brennan_, it said on it, written in blue ink, in Kim’s loopy cursive. _Repair and Maintenance. B3_. 

The elevator stopped and the doors opened, and Darcy stepped out, looking right and then left, not knowing which direction to go. There weren’t any signs on the wall. She could hear the faint sound of tinny voices, like maybe someone had a TV or radio on, and she went in that direction, to the left. 

There was a turn at the end of the hallway, and as she rounded the corner, she found herself in front of a doorless entryway, leading to a large, open, messy-looking area filled with all kinds of industrial equipment, and a half-dozen large workbenches covered with a variety of junk. The walls were lined with metal shelves, crammed full with all manner of electronic and mechanical bits and pieces, a huge assortment of machines and devices in various stages of disassembly, coils of wire and cable, and cardboard boxes stuffed with all sorts of hardware and components. 

She could still hear the voices: definitely a TV on somewhere, the sound of newscasters breathlessly repeating the latest updates on Captain America, but she couldn’t see a screen anywhere. 

“Hello?” she said, tentatively, stepping a bit more into the room. “Anyone here?” 

“Hey,” said rough voice, and a decidedly _not_-hot, messy-looking man in a zip-up, full-body mechanic’s coverall stepped around the corner, startling her. He had dirty-blond hair and a ruddy complexion, and was wiping his dirt-blackened hands on a work-rag. “Can I help you?” he said, looking her up and down, lingering a bit too long below the neck. 

“Uh… yeah,” she said, recovering. “I’m looking for…” She glanced at her scrap paper again. “John Brennan.” 

“What you need Brennan for,” said the guy. He was still checking out her boobs— not even being particularly subtle about it. She shifted uncomfortably, holding the bag of phones a bit closer to her body. 

“I’m supposed to bring this stuff to him,” she said. 

“Give it to me,” he said, taking a step forward, holding out his hand. “I’ll see he gets it.” 

It was just a bunch of crappy work phones, but for some reason she was suddenly feeling very protective of them. 

“Kim told me to give them to Brennan,” she said. “Kim Hirschfield.” 

“Uh huh,” said the guy. “I know Kim.” 

“Yeah,” said Darcy. “Well, she told me to—” 

“Yeah, fine; I got it,” said the guy, cutting her off. He seemed pissed off that Darcy wouldn’t just do what he wanted. “He’s through there,” he said, gesturing toward another doorway, at the back of the main room. “Don’t take up too much of his time,” he added, like she was some pesky kid annoying the grownups. “He don’t like bein’ bothered.” With that, the guy skulked back to wherever he’d come from, around the corner. 

“_Asshole_,” she muttered, under her breath, once he was gone, and then made her way past the other cluttered work benches, toward the rear of the big room. She could hear the sound of the TV getting louder, the closer she got. 

She hesitated at the threshold, almost thinking of going back, not wanting to interrupt the guy while he was working. She felt annoyed with herself, realizing that she’d let herself be affected by what that jerkoff guy had said— knew he’d only said it to have precisely this kind of effect on her— to throw her off balance, just to prove he _could_. 

Fuck that. 

“Hello?” she said— just like before, maybe a little quieter— and then knocked on the wall by the doorway, trying to announce her presence. When nobody answered, she took a step in. The smaller room was just as cluttered as the big one, albeit a bit more organized. There was a workbench in here, too, about ten feet from the doorway, and a dark-haired man was sitting behind it, in profile to her, holding something metallic in his hand— something he was working on. His eyes were riveted to a flat-screen TV mounted to the opposite wall. 

He was so involved in the newscast— the images flickering between the male-female anchor duo, and the same three publicity photos of Captain America, from the 40s, over and over— that he apparently hadn’t heard her come in. 

He looked about the same age as her, maybe a bit older: late twenties to mid-thirties. He had dark brown hair— short, but not too short, with just a touch of wave in it; a few stray pieces curled down to his forehead, a bit like Superman in the comic books. The few days’ growth of beard on his face would have looked greasy on some guys, but on a handsome guy like him, he could have been getting ready for his GQ shoot. 

He was wearing a plain white undershirt on top, and she could see that the side facing her— the left side— was the one with the prosthetic arm that Kim had mentioned. Most of it was cosmetic, tinted to match his natural skin color, but the hand looked like something from a cyborg movie: it was mostly black, with some silver hardware, and appeared to have articulating fingers. 

His workspace was covered with all sorts of tools and a collection of aerosol cans. The air smelled of solvent and oil. 

She cleared her throat. “Uh.” 

He still hadn’t moved— was completely transfixed by the story up on the screen. 

“Excuse me,” she said, a little louder. “Mr. Brennan? John Brennan?” 

Nothing. Maybe he was hard of hearing. She stamped her foot on the floor a couple times, remembering that it was a way to get the attention of someone who responded more to vibrations. 

That did it. 

He moved so quickly, jumping up from his seat, startled, that she didn’t see what his hands were doing at first— was too busy fumbling to explain herself, even as she gaped at his face, now fully visible to her. And damn, Kim hadn’t been kidding: he was a dead-ringer for 1940s guy, if a bit older, maybe a bit more beaten up, a little bit leaner. And this guy didn’t have a _come-fuck-me_ face. This guy looked… the only appropriate word was _haunted_, even as she got a little lost in his silver-blue eyes. 

“John Brennan?” she started to say again, and then her gaze finally dipped to his hands, saw what he was holding, and she immediately took a step back, putting up her hands, the bag of phones dropping to the floor. 

“Whoa there, cowboy,” she said. She swallowed, and then found her voice again. “You wanna put the gun down?” 

His eyes had flicked to the bag she’d fumbled and dropped, and she followed the movement, and tried to explain. “I’m supposed to give you those. They’re just some dead phones in need of repair. I’m sorry I startled you.” 

His eyes moved up to meet hers again, but the rest of his body was still frozen. 

"That’s not loaded, is it?” she said. Every cell in her body was tense. She knew it was almost certainly not loaded— that he was probably working on it or cleaning it— but it was still unnerving to look down the barrel of a gun pointed directly at her. 

It seemed like her words were finally making it through to him: he looked down at his right hand, at his fingers wrapped around the grip of the pistol, and he abruptly dropped it onto the desk and then stared at his open hand, turning it over to stare at the palm. She could see that it was shaking. 

“Hey, you okay?” 

His mouth opened, like he was going to say something, but instead of looking at her, he looked up at the television screen again. She again followed the movement, trying to track what could possibly be going through his head. 

“I know,” she said, nodding to the TV, even though he wasn’t looking her way. “Crazy news, huh?” 

He was still just staring at the screen, not acknowledging her presence, and it was starting to feel a little bit creepy— she was getting a bit of that serial-killer vibe Kim had joked about, before. 

“Oh-kay,” she said, drawing out the syllables. “I, uh… I guess I’ll just leave this stuff for you then,” she said, and bent down slowly, watching him the whole time, feeling for the bag on the floor, and then grabbed it and raised up again, just as slowly. 

She started to step forward cautiously; as soon as she moved toward him, his attention snapped back to her, and he flinched a little. She stopped immediately to explain what she was doing. It felt a little bit like approaching a cornered animal. 

“I’m just gonna set this down on your desk, okay? And then I’m out of here.” She held his eyes as she took another careful step forward, and then leaned the rest of the way to set the bag down on his workbench. 

“I’m, uh… I’m gonna leave you alone now. I’m really sorry for bothering you.” 

She stepped backward toward the doorway, keeping her eyes on him the whole way. He was watching her, his lips slightly parted to breathe, and she could see now that he was studying her, like he’d finally realized there was another living person in the room— that he hadn’t imagined it. 

She still had her arms raised, palms toward him, in an overt display of non-threatening intentions, and she kept them raised until she was all the way out the room and was pivoting to head back through the main workshop. She had to resist the urge to sprint, or to look behind her to see if he was still watching. 

Fuck. 

Yeah. She could totally see what Kim had been talking about. That guy was definitely weird. Hot as fuck, but weird. She felt a sense of relief when she was safely in the elevator, the doors closed up tight, the car ascending back up to the above-ground levels. 

* * *

John sat back down behind the desk, trying to make sense of all the static in his brain. He’d been in the middle of something— some kind of epiphany, involving the man on the screen. Something about his face making him feel something… remember something? Maybe he’d read about him before, and… 

It was too far away now; he couldn’t re-capture it. That girl. She’d come in, interrupting him, and… 

It was all a blur. His head felt like a balloon. Like someone was pumping it full of warm liquid, and if they didn’t stop, it was going to explode. 

She was pretty, the girl. He could see that now, in his replaying of the memory. Why had he done that, with the gun? He’d frightened her. 

He could see, in the replay, that he’d acted oddly, even after dropping the gun. More fucked-up than usual, for sure. He should call his therapist, schedule an extra session. Maybe tomorrow, if she was available. 

He was thinking about it. What he should say, when he called. His thoughts were adrift. The girl had blue eyes. She’d said something unusual to him. Familiar in its strangeness. He’d completely forgotten what he’d been doing, what’d he’d been working on… 

“Hey,” said a rough voice, and he almost lost it again, startling in his seat like someone had poked him with an electric prod. Peck was standing there, in his doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. “I’m takin’ off,” he said. 

John didn’t reply— just stared at him blankly. 

Peck turned to go, and John spoke up suddenly, stopping him. “That girl. Who was she?” 

Peck grinned a little. “You mean the one with the nice tits? And that ass— man oh man…” He was holding his hands up at chest-height, flexing his fingers like he was squeezing something. 

John just looked at him, his face unchanged. 

Peck dropped his smirk, as he took in Brennan’s stolid expression. “Think she works in accounting,” he said, already turning to go again. “Said she knew Kim. Anyway, see you tomorrow.” 

John watched him go, not bothering to answer. 

* * *

That night, in the darkness of his room, as he lay on his back on the mattress that always felt too wide, he kept seeing blue… blue eyes. He had blue eyes. John. That was him. So did the man on the television. So did the girl. 

Her lips had made words at him. Red lips, saying his name. And something else. What had she said? 

He played it back in his head, like someone rewinding a tape, until he got to the part where he’d turned, had seen her standing there. First his name. John. John Brennan. And then… 

“…_cowboy_…” 

A strange kind of word. A strange thing to call someone. He wasn’t a cowboy. 

“_Whoa there, cowboy… John Brennan. Whoa, there_…” 

The words repeated in his mind, over and over: a strange loop, neverending, like a song… 

It was an eerie lullaby that rocked him into some in-between place, not quite conscious, as he slowly fell, slow-motion… sinking down…enveloped… 

It was a comfort at first: a warmth, a feeling of being held close… safe… 

But the illusion of safety evaporated, bleeding out slowly into a puddle of fear that had him fighting to breathe, his chest as tight as a drum… 

He was suffocating… drowning… 

No… he was choking… the life being squeezed from his body as he fought against it, struggling for air, only to realize… 

It was he who was doing the thing, the job, the murder: the metal hand clenching tighter… tighter… unyielding, intent, utterly determined not to fail, the fingers wrapped around the target’s neck, digging in, feeling the crunch, the trachea collapsing… 

And when the work was done, and the target was expired, and John finally succumbed to sleep, all that remained of the memory was the satisfaction of a job well done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	6. Chapter 6

“And why do think this particular image was more upsetting than the other violent dreams you’ve been experiencing?” 

John’s therapist was leaning forward in her chair a little, her face wearing a completely neutral expression: making it clear that she wasn’t alarmed by what he’d told her, but was rather— as always— ready to listen patiently, with an open, non-judgmental mind… to guide him through his thoughts, and, occasionally, offer gentle suggestions as to how to frame them in a less self-accusatory manner. 

He shifted himself on the couch a little, dropping his eyes to the carpet again. Sometimes he didn’t want patience. He wanted an honest opinion— maybe even something a little tough. Something he could believe. 

“I guess because I can’t match it up with anything I’ve been learnin’ about,” he said. “Usually… the bad ones are things that probably got shook loose by somethin’ I was lookin’ at or readin’ about… the stuff they put on my tablet. Afghanistan, or…” He let the sentence drift off. 

“And how was this different?” 

“I wasn’t watchin’ it happen,” he said. “I was doin’ it.” He pressed his lips together, seeing the imagery again in his memory, the fear in the eyes of the target before he crushed her windpipe… 

“But it wasn’t me, or not— I mean, it was…” He tried to be more specific. “I had a metal hand…” 

“Different from the one you have now?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said, instinctively lifting his prosthetic hand to look at it: used the myoelectric control to curl the articulated fingers into a fist, and then unfurled them slowly. “It felt… it was different. It wasn’t— ” He was trying to put it into words: how it’d felt in the dream— if it’d even been a dream. Part of him felt like he’d still been awake. Not a dream at all, but more like… a memory. 

“It was a weapon,” he said. 

“Your hand was a weapon?” she said, repeating it. She clicked the button on the end of her ballpoint pen and jotted something down on the yellow pad in her lap. It always made him a little nervous when she did that. 

“You think that’s some kinda… I dunno, like a metaphor or something?” 

She finished writing, and looked up at him again. “Do you feel that it could be a metaphor?” 

He pressed his lips together again, breathing out through his nose. It was frustrating, when she wouldn’t give him a straight answer to anything. He knew that was the way this worked— that she wasn’t there to give him the answers, but rather to guide him on his own journey to find them— but it was still irritating. 

“I don’t know,” he said. He was being honest, but he also wasn’t trying very hard. 

Maybe it’d been a mistake, asking for this extra session. Now she was concerned, but he didn’t have anything useful to tell her. At least nothing he was willing to disclose, now that he was here. 

He’d originally planned to tell her about the odd interaction with the girl: the way he’d instinctively pointed the gun at her, how he’d been frozen— tongue-tied. And later, how he kept seeing her eyes, hearing her voice… repeating the sound of it in his head, all mixed up with the images of that Captain America guy… 

He felt like he should tell her how unstable he felt… the way it all made his head feel hot inside… 

It seemed… important. 

But now, sitting here, across from her, feeling like he didn’t trust her concerned face anymore: not completely (and when had that happened?), he was glad he hadn’t mentioned any of those things. Talking about the dream had felt safer: the kind of thing they’d discussed before. A simple story to tell. Question-and-answer. 

He realized he was staring at her: at her perfectly-coiffed hairdo, the deep brown shade— even darker than his own— probably a dye-job. The sleek bobbed style was deliberately bland: so perfectly designed to not be offensive to anybody, that it backfired and offended by having no personality at all… 

She blinked back at him and he snapped out of it, looking down again. 

“Have you been taking your medication?” she said, interrupting his silent brooding. 

“Yeah.” 

“Maybe we could stand to adjust the dosage a little,” she said, and she rolled her chair over to her desk, pulled a mini-tablet out of her top drawer, turned it on, and typed something into it. “I’m sending it over to the pharmacy right now. You can pick it up later today. You may feel some additional drowsiness, so be aware of that as you acclimate to it.” 

“Okay,” he said. 

“Still using the gym?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve, uh… I started goin’ in the morning, before it gets too busy, but there’s still, you know… people around.” 

In the past, he’d carefully timed his workouts so that there’d be as few people in the gym as possible— but too often, someone would still try to make conversation with him, or ask him to be a spotter, and he’d have to make an excuse and leave. He’d discovered in recent weeks that it was actually easier to be left alone when there were more people around, rather than fewer. It made him nervous, but it was preferable to the pressure he felt when he was one of only two or three other people in the room. 

“That’s good,” she was saying. “It’s a good way to stretch your comfort level.” She smiled. “Though I wouldn’t object, if you decided to have a conversation with someone.” 

“Don’t hold your breath,” he said, trying for a joke. 

She didn’t respond— was finishing up something on the tablet, and then she clicked it off and put it back in the desk drawer. 

“So,” she said, swiveling back around to face him. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about today?” 

“No,” he said, his voice soft. “Don’t think so. I, uh… just thought it was a good idea to, you know… touch base, with that dream and all…” 

“I’m glad you came in,” she said. “I’m seeing a lot of progress here, with your commitment to this process.” 

He wasn’t really listening. He was already thinking about the girl again— her face, how pretty she’d looked, even as he’d seen the anxiety written on it… the anxiety he’d created. He felt regret. 

He was glad he’d kept it to himself. It felt… private. Just between the two of them: him and the girl. 

“So I’ll see you in few days?” she said, standing up. “At our regular time?” 

He stood up too. “Yeah.” 

“Okay,” she said. “Take care, John. Don’t hesitate to call sooner, if you need me.” 

She waited until he’d left and she’d heard his footsteps retreating well away from her office, and then she enabled the electronic lock on the door and pulled out the mini-tablet again. She swiped it awake and put in her passcode, and then opened the secure video chat. There was a short delay, and then Jasper Sitwell’s face appeared in the little frame in the lower corner of the screen. 

“What’d you find out,” he said, without preamble. 

“He’s agitated,” she said. “Something different about him. He’s guarded, too: hiding something. He had a dream, or a waking memory— hard to tell which, from his description— but it sounds like he was remembering a job. Crushing someone’s throat.” 

She sighed. “I’m not gonna lie; I’m concerned. With all the news about Rogers all over the place, I can’t rule out that his memories are being triggered. I increased the dosage of his medication, but I don’t know how much that’s going to help. He may need a full wipe, if this gets any worse.” 

“Dammit,” said Sitwell, and she could see him leaning back in his chair, in his office at the Hub. “No-one could’ve predicted this thing with Rogers; I mean, of all the lousy timing…” 

She was quiet, letting him rant. 

“It’s been a real shit-storm over here,” he said. 

“You don’t think they… he and Rogers… that they could have been bonded, do you?” she said. “In spite of what Rogers said back in the day?” 

“God, no,” said Sitwell. “I saw the proof myself. He and Carter were a match; there was extensive corroboration.” 

“Jeez,” said the doctor, almost smirking. “How’s that gonna work, now that he’s back? She’s gotta be what— almost a hundred years old?” 

“I don’t wanna know,” said Sitwell. 

“She still in that home in D.C.?” 

“Yeah. We had someone there at first, keeping an eye on her, but not for some time now. Maybe we should re-think that…” 

“In case he tries to go see her?” It wasn’t her area, or even her place to comment, but she could see that Sitwell was agitated. The unprecedented discovery of Captain Rogers had thrown a wrench in a number of assumptions about how things were meant to proceed over the next few years… 

“It’s not a priority… yet,” he said. “Fury’s gonna squirrel him away somewhere, I can just tell. And Phil’s in on it too, the little shit. You know he got invited to the thaw?” 

“Yeah, I heard,” she said, allowing him to vent, even though his jealousy was ridiculous. Sitwell was always sucking up to the wrong people: like he couldn't help it... 

“Anyway,” he said, “I don’t know what’s gonna happen. I’ll be honest; there’s been some talk of an early extraction…” 

“But why?” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “Having him here, it’s too valuable an opportunity; don’t they realize—” 

“I know, I know,” he said. “But with Rogers in play, and no idea where they’re gonna put him… how they plan to use him…” 

“So what do you want me to do,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation. 

He thought about it for a moment, and said, “What’s your opinion?” 

She was surprised he was asking, but she didn’t hesitate. “I recommend we keep closer tabs on him. Definitely restrict his access to media, until we see how this plays out. I mean, for God’s sake: what if some network does a retrospective on the Commandos…” 

“Shit,” said Sitwell. “Never shoulda let him have that TV in the first place…” 

She didn’t respond. It wasn’t easy, keeping him so isolated without making it obvious that that was what they were doing, especially when Coulson and May were still watching him from a distance as well. 

She’d let 'John' believe most of the restrictions were his own idea: like living in the basement, instead of the residential wing. Eating most of his meals alone. Using the facilities at off-hours. As far as he knew, she wanted him to be _more_ social, not less. They’d had a nice balance going, until now... 

“Is Peck still posted down there?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “He’s been complaining about it. Says the guy’s a real limp-dick.” 

Sitwell had to laugh at that. “God, if he only knew…” His mirth only lasted a second, and then he was back on point. “Schedule him in for longer shifts, and make sure security is covered. I want eyes on Barnes at all times.” 

“Got it. You want me to pull his privileges?” 

“Has he tried to leave the base?” 

“Not recently,” she said. “He’s authorized to sign out a vehicle, within certain limits, but he’s only gone out a few times. I was able to encourage… a suitable level of paranoia about it. He always returned within an hour or two, and didn’t even go into town. Took out one of the motorcycles. Seems like he just wanted to ride around for a while. We always had him followed, of course.” 

Sitwell was quiet while he considered it. “Let it stand,” he said. “But inform me if he goes out. And put another man or two in town, just in case.” 

“I’ll see to it.” 

“And, uh… let’s touch base more frequently. If we need to move sooner on this, we’re gonna need time to set it up…” 

“Understood,” she said, grimly. 

* * *

He’d taken his meds. Was lying flat on his back, the room dark. Quiet. Tried to still his mind, to match the quiet of the room. It wasn’t working. 

She was there, in his head. The girl. 

He needed to see her. He didn’t know why, but it was imperative. 

Maybe he was feeling guilty. He’d been so engrossed in that news program, trying to figure out who that guy reminded him of. She’d startled him, interrupted his thinking… but that was no excuse. He’d pointed a fucking gun at her. No matter that it’d been unloaded, not even fully-assembled. 

_Find her. Make it right._

Needed to see her, apologize somehow. Not optional. _Find a way_. 

He knew he was thinking irrationally, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. None of the usual tricks were working. He hoped the meds would kick in soon. Help him sleep. 

He was afraid to dream. But maybe _she_ would be there, this time. Instead of the violence, the brutality of the night before. 

He’d held back at the session. Hadn’t confessed how, in the dream, it’d felt satisfying when the neck had collapsed. Crushed. Because of him. Doing his job. They’d be pleased. 

Who were ‘_they_’. 

_Find her_. 

It was like he was having three or four competing conversations at once, in his head. It’d never been this bad. Or maybe it had, but he just couldn’t remember. 

He wished he could get drunk. Do what the rest of the low-lifes did— go into town, buy a bottle. Make the thoughts go away, or at least shave off the sharpness of their edges. He must’ve been able to in the past, because the urge was still there. The instinct to numb himself. 

They’d discovered his immunity to alcohol back at the medical center. That and his strength, his quickness to heal. Said they had to be gifts from his soulmate, unlocked some time in the past. He couldn’t remember that either. 

He wondered if she was still alive: his soulmate. If she was alive, why had she abandoned him? Not sought to find him? She could tell him who he was, who he’d been. Help him. 

She was probably dead. Maybe he’d killed her. Crushed her throat, like in the dream. Maybe that’s what he was remembering. Maybe she— 

_She_. 

A different ‘she’. The girl. _Whoa there, cowboy_. He wanted to hear her say it again. Say his name. Watch her lips, as she said it. Maybe she was mate-less too. A blank, or… 

He was awful, wishing that for her, for his own benefit… What the fuck was wrong with him… 

Peck had said she worked in accounting. He sat up in bed, turned on the light. Swung his legs over the edge, bare feet touching the cold floor. Leaned up to grab the tablet off his desk. Powered it on. There was a directory there, somewhere. Personnel. 

It took him a while, but he found the right department. Scrolled down through the listings, past the short bios for the departmental heads. The rest of the staff was listed alphabetically: Name and contact number, a local email account, a tiny headshot. 

Scrolling. No. No. Not her. No. He went past the other woman’s entry: Kim something. She’d been kind to him. 

No, no, no, n— 

There. 

There she was. 

Her name was Lewis, Darcy. Darcy Lewis. She was wearing eyeglasses in the photo— big, awkward, plastic-framed glasses. She hadn’t been wearing glasses here, in the basement. She didn’t need them all the time, apparently. Yet she hadn’t removed them for the picture. She wasn’t vain. 

She had a big, friendly smile. Her lips were full. They looked soft. There was a gap between her front teeth. 

He was flooded with the urge to kiss her. To seek her out, wrap his arm around her to pull her body close to his, until he could feel the warmth of the blood rushing through her skin— run his lips against hers, taste the wet of her mouth… 

He abruptly pressed the power button on the tablet, shutting it down. 

He should have told the therapist. What if he was dangerous? 

Accounting. What floor was that on. 

No. He couldn’t just go there, come at her like some kind of creep. 

_Find her_. 

Maybe he could see her from afar. Somewhere with lots of people around, so she’d be safe. She wouldn’t even have to know he was there. Just see her. Just once. 

Maybe the gym. Most of the staff used it. Many of them needed to stay fit for their work. 

John stayed fit as part of his recovery regimen. He didn’t need it for his job, but it helped with the depression that was always lurking. Waiting to pull him under. 

He’d never seen her at the gym. But then, he’d never been looking for her. He was never quite aware of the people around him when he left the safety of the basement: some part of him shutting down, needing to shrink into a box— _eyes front, Soldier_— to be able to slide between the press of people, the hum of the conversations that tried to wedge their way in, pry open that part of him that still felt things, was still vulnerable to sensation… 

If not the gym then where. 

Everyone had to eat. 

He usually ate alone, in his room or at his workbench, timing his trips to the cafeteria carefully, in between the rush… sometimes waiting for hours, hungry, until it was almost empty— just a skeleton crew serving and ringing up the few stray people who wandered in during the off-peak times. He got all his meals to go. 

She probably took a lunch break with a group from her department. Slid along with the stream, the rush of voices and footfalls and the clatter of trays on tables, sudden bursts of laughter…. everything sharp, loud… everything he avoided. Things that still made him flinch, see spikes of light and hear things that weren’t really there: symptoms of his PTSD, according to his therapist. 

He could do it, if it gave him a chance to see her. Maybe. He could sit at a table. Bring a book, so that nobody would try to talk to him. 

He felt tired. Maybe the meds were kicking in, finally. His head felt heavy. Warm. He switched the light off and lay back down again. Drifted off, thinking of her. 

* * *

“Oh my God,” said Kim, under her breath. She kicked Darcy under the table, hard. 

“Ow,” said Darcy, looking up from her phone. “What the fuck.” 

“It’s him,” said Kim, her voice even lower. She was twisting her face into her own shoulder, trying hide her mouth: far too many people in this cafeteria were expert lip-readers. 

“Him who,” said Andy, leaning forward, conspiratorially. “The guy you screwed in the locker room?” 

“No,” said Kim. 

“Darn,” said Andy, sitting back, disappointed. “I wanted to see what a guy packing that much cock looked like on the outside.” 

“I may have exaggerated,” said Kim. “And no,” she repeated. “It’s the hot guy from the basement. Maintenance man. Brennan. What the fuck is he doing outside his lair? He never comes out in the daytime.” 

“Ooh, where,” said Andy, perking up again. He was swiveling around in his seat, scanning the room. 

“Knock it off, asshole,” said Kim, almost hissing it out. “He’s gonna catch on.” 

“I think I see him,” said Andy, while Darcy slumped lower in her seat, embarrassed. “Is it the guy with the book? Holy shit, you were right— he’s beautiful.” He sucked in a breath. “Oh my God, the _hand_… did you see his robot hand? Fucking _hot_.” 

“Jesus, Andy,” said Darcy, resolutely _not looking_. “Are you serious right now? ‘_Oh, your disability is such a turn-on_…’” 

Andy rolled his eyes. “Hey, if you can’t be honest about your kinks with your friends, who are you supposed to share with?” 

“I dunno, Tumblr?” 

“Oh my God, he’s looking over here,” said Kim, shifting her head to look straight down at the table. “Don’t look. I said, don’t _look!_” It was Andy’s turn to get kicked under the table, but he ignored it, and did a very crappy job of peering over his shoulder while he pretended to scratch an itch on his lower back. 

“You guys are both twelve years old,” said Darcy sourly. “Seriously, would you just stop? Please? Maybe this is the first time he’s had the balls to come up and eat in here, and you’re doing exactly what he probably figured people would do.” 

“What, ogle his blatant hotness?” Andy looked one more time: the dark-haired man was looking pointedly down at his open paperback again. 

“No—stare at him, like the rude motherfucker you are,” said Darcy. 

“Uh, _yeah_,” said Andy. “Because he’s hot.” He looked again. “More like _dreamy_, if you ask me… forget 1940s guy— Buster Brown, or whatever his name was. This guy is serving 1950s James-Dean-tortured-soul, all the way. He should take up smoking.” 

“Why are so you quick to rush to his rescue, anyway,” said Kim, ignoring Andy to focus on Darcy. “What really happened down there, when you delivered the phones? Were you lying before?” 

“No,” said Darcy. “It was just like I said: I went down there, dropped off the phones, and left. He didn’t even say a word to me. Too busy watching the Captain America stuff, like everyone else.” 

Darcy hadn’t mentioned to anyone that Brennan had pulled a weapon on her, even though it was probably a reportable incident. As weird as the whole thing had been, she didn’t want to get the guy in trouble over something that hadn’t done any actual harm. 

“That other guy was a real douchebag, though,” she added, hoping to change the subject. 

“Who, Peck?” said Kim. “Yeah. He is a smarmy little fuck, isn’t he.” Kim went right back to talking about Brennan, undeterred. “You sure nothing weird happened? Because this is, like, unprecedented. He’s been here as long as you have— a little longer, actually— and this is the first time I’ve seen him show his face in daylight. And he was _definitely_ looking over here.” 

“Maybe he’s a vampire,” said Andy. “Like the Cullens, where he can go out in daytime, just not _outside_, like in the sun… I mean, he’s got that _look_… you know?” 

“Don’t be a dumbass,” said Darcy. She pushed herself away from the table. “I’m gonna get another chocolate milk; anyone want anything?” 

“Nope,” said Andy. He was already on his phone, creating a new file for a fanfic about Maintenance Guy being a long-lost member of the Cullen clan. “What’d you say his name was? Brandon?” 

“Jesus, don’t use his real name,” said Kim, and then moved her eyes to Darcy, who was standing up. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.” She sing-songed it: “_Oh, don't mind me; I’m just gonna get some milk_…” 

“Fuck off,” said Darcy, not looking back as she wove her way between the crowded tables, heading toward the end of the long cafeteria line. 

The truth was, she really did want to get another look at him— she was curious, in spite of herself— but not if he was gonna catch her doing it. Making her way through the line and then back to the table would give her the opportunity for at least a cursory glance, without anyone being the wiser. Except for Kim and Andy, who were currently making obscene gestures at her from across the room. She gave them the finger and then turned her back to them, resolved not to look their way again. 

She couldn’t see John Brennan from her place in line— there were too many people in the way— but once she rounded the bend to the row of cashiers, she had a good line of sight to check him out. 

He was sitting alone at a far table, his back to the wall, his head down: apparently engrossed in a book, or pretending to be. He was wearing a pale grey Henley shirt— a bit large on him, and too warm for the weather— perhaps to hide the prosthetic arm she’d gotten a full view of in the basement. His so-called ‘robot hand’, as Andy had so crassly referred to it, was partially visible, its fingers peeking out from the cuff of the shirt, to hold his book open on the table. His tray had a single wrapped sandwich on it and a bottle of water, both of which looked undisturbed. 

She saw him glance up once, looking over to where she’d been sitting a moment ago, with Kim and Andy, and she quickly looked away. 

There were still a couple more people in front of her at the cashier station, and after she’d grabbed her milk, she snuck one more peek— this time actually turning her head to see him fully— and when she did, she saw that he was looking right at her. His lips parted and he blinked once, and she didn’t know why, but for some reason, she didn’t look away. 

He was just as attractive as she’d remembered, and the creep-factor was all but gone, with his being all the way across the room, with so many other people around. He still looked like 1940s guy to her— not James Dean, like Andy had said; he was softer than that. Pretty eyes. And damn, that was a nice mouth. She hadn’t noticed before. She was still looking at him, their eyes locked together, when someone poked her in the back, and she startled, jerking her head around to see what it was. 

“You’re up,” said the guy behind her. 

“Oh,” she said, feeling stupid. “Sorry.” 

She scrambled to pay for her drink, and by the time she looked back, John Brennan was gone, along with his tray. It was like he’d never been there at all. 

* * *

It’d felt like time standing still, when she’d looked at him full-on: held his gaze, unafraid. 

He couldn’t breathe. God, she was beautiful. 

There was a glow around her. Her friends were a couple of numbskulls, but she… 

He’d never felt anything like it. It was a tightness in his chest, his groin. A shivering in his blood. 

This was no good. There was something wrong with him. _Fuck_. He shouldn’t have done this. 

When she startled, turning to speak to the guy behind her in line, he quickly grabbed up his tray and his book and got the heck out of there, and didn’t look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	7. Chapter 7

It was like an addiction: going through the same routine of resolution, commitment, and then failure, every single day, for the next week. He’d wake up every morning, resolved to do better— to leave the poor girl alone— and by mid-day he’d crumble, needing to see her again. It was like a fire licking at his insides, growing, being stoked a bit more each day by some invisible demon… 

If he hadn’t known better, he would have wondered about the things she’d said to him, that first day… wondered if his lost arm could have possibly been etched with words like ‘_cowboy_’ and ‘_whoa there_’ and maybe even his name… 

But this wasn’t that— couldn’t be— he’d already lived through that with someone else, apparently, the moment now lost to time, the memory unfairly stolen from him, and it did no good to muse over the fantasy of it being _her_ whom he was fated to find… 

No: this was something else. Maybe just— and he hated to think it, because it made him feel like nothing more than some disgusting, brute animal— but maybe it’d just been so long since he’d even considered the comfort of a woman’s touch, a woman’s eyes looking at him with anything soft and warm, that he’d latched onto the possibility of it, like some kind of life-line… 

There was just something about her: when he’d seen her face, heard her speak, it’d been like a light coming on in a dark room, reminding him: _you’re still alive… you’re still here, even with this cruel starting over from nothing, of building a new man from a void… you’re still in there, somewhere_… 

It was unfair to lay all of that on her. He needed to leave her alone. It wasn’t her problem if he was lonely, and touch-starved, and— 

He’d been doing okay, before. Like his therapist said, he’d been making progress. Or it’d felt like it, until now. He’d come a long way in a year, since waking up in that medical facility— under attack, lost, no idea where he was or even _who_ he was— like being reborn into some new, not-quite-human shell… issued a new brain, a new body that wasn’t meant for some things, and he’d been doing his best to find a way to live it. 

It’d been hard, but he’d been doing all right. Finding a rhythm, a way to play the role named ‘_John Brennan_.’ He hadn’t been happy, but at least he hadn’t been so aware of what he’d been missing… 

He almost wished he could go back. 

He tried to fight it, but it felt like it wasn’t even his decision any more. He had to see her. And with each additional glimpse of her from across a room, around a corner, the little voice in the back of his head that said he needed to confess— to tell his therapist he was losing it… that he was setting foot on some dangerous path with an unknown destination— that voice got a little smaller, a little more faint, until it receded to a whisper that disappeared entirely. 

* * *

Darcy was standing in line, waiting to pay for her iced coffee, when she felt that telltale prickle on the back of her neck, like she was being watched, and she looked around, trying to find him. Knew he was there, somewhere: John Brennan. 

It was starting to get creepy. She’d noticed him no fewer than a dozen times over the past week: skirting the shadows, almost-but-not-quite out of view, always on the periphery of the spaces she occupied… 

He was always alone, and it was clear that he had no reason to be there, lurking, other than to watch her. She began to see him all over the place: In the cafeteria. Here, by the coffee cart. Around the corner from the vending machines, on Level 3. Once at the gym. 

He’d stayed away from her workplace, as far as she knew, which was good: he’d stick out like a sore thumb there, in his dirty maintenance clothes, someone sure to notice him among all the boring suits and stiffs, and then this whatever-it-was that was going on between them would get outed. She’d be forced to do something about it. 

As it was, she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. Not Kim, or Andy, or even Jane. She couldn’t explain it— why she was keeping it to herself. She knew it made no sense that she'd kept quiet about it. The gun was one thing— she’d startled him; he’d put it down. No harm done. But this was different. This was definitely reportable behavior. 

The fact that she _hadn’t_ reported it, when it’d been going on now for a week, almost made her own behavior suspect. She knew if it’d been someone else— like that asshole who worked with him in the basement— she would have been talking to HR on Day One. 

So why hadn’t she reported Brennan? Because he was attractive? She hated the idea that that’s all it took for some guy to get away with stalking— for God’s sake, that was how Ted Bundy had gotten away with murdering dozens of young women. Because he’d been good-looking, charismatic. Girls had been so flattered by his attention that they’d ignored their own better judgement. Would never have accepted a ride from an _ugly_ man they didn’t know… 

She didn’t want to report him. Wanted to give him a chance to come forward, to talk to her like a normal person. To stop acting like some creepy weirdo. She knew it was foolish, but her instincts were telling her that John Brennan wasn’t a bad guy; he was just… weird. 

_Right_, she thought. _And next week they’ll find your body parts scattered around the base in garbage bags_. 

She could see him there in the distance, across the lobby, as she moved up in the line. He’d look over at her every few seconds, his hands in his pockets, almost like he was waiting… 

But for what? Was he waiting for _her_ to do something? She paid for her coffee, put her card away and zipped up her wristlet, and was suddenly bowled over with an almost furious need to _know_— was ready to march over there, confront him: 

_What do you want? Why me?_

_Who are you?_

She almost did it. Was going to. But when she looked up, he was gone, like always: slipped away like a specter, blending back into the shadows, until the next time… 

* * *

The next time turned out to be at the gym, early in the morning. 

When she’d seen him there the one time before, it’d been fleeting: she’d been filling up her water bottle at the refill station, and when she’d turned around, screwing the cap back on, she’d looked up, and caught sight of him by the door to the men’s locker rooms. He’d held her eyes for a moment, and then the door had abruptly pushed open next to him, a big group of noisy guys shoving through, and he’d slipped away behind them— vanished, by the time the heavy door was swinging shut. 

This time it was different: he wasn’t lurking, wasn’t hiding. He was right out in the open, sitting on a bench by the free-weights, looking overdressed in sweats and a grey hoodie. He was doing slow, methodical reps with a single dumbbell — working out his one flesh arm. 

It was almost shocking to see him doing something so completely normal after all the subterfuge, but then maybe he hadn’t expected her to be there. This wasn’t her normal time; she usually went after work. 

He was curling what looked like an insane amount of weight— even for an athletic man— so she could only assume he worked out regularly. Maybe this was just his usual time. She almost felt like she was intruding on his privacy, which was nuts: they were in a public place, filled with dozens of other people. 

She tried to play it cool— turned away before he could look up and make eye contact with her from across the room, and then attended to her normal sequence of twenty minutes of cycling, followed by squats in front of the mirrors. She felt self-conscious about the squats for the first time in months, wondering if he was still there, by the free weights— if he was watching her ass as she silently counted out the reps, up and down… 

“Lookin’ good, Lewis.” 

She almost jumped at the sound of her name; her mind had been so full of dark brown hair and those soft, pretty lips, that she’d almost forgotten where she was. 

It was Mark: the sexy guy she’d told Jane about. She’d been working up to flirting more openly with him— maybe even asking him out— but in the week since she’d encountered John Brennan, she’d all but forgotten about her little gymnasium crush. 

Seeing him now, she was reminded how cute he really was. He wasn’t exactly her type— medium height, sandy-blond hair, and a fit, if somewhat cookie-cutter, Ken-doll physique— but she certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. She just had to get him there first. She was pretty sure he’d be down with that, if she’d been reading the signals correctly. 

“Right back at you,” she said, grinning, as she stopped to wipe off her sweaty forehead. He had a couple of his buddies with him, and they’d stepped back a little, giving their friend some room to talk to her. 

“What you been up to,” he said, and then, “You switchin’ to mornings?” 

“Nah, just today,” she said. “Are you?” 

Her eyes flicked over to the free-weight area, behind him. Brennan was still there, working on his shoulders now. She wondered if he still had a shoulder muscle, on his altered side. She had the feeling he was watching them, without making it obvious. Listening, maybe, if he had good hearing. She wondered if her talking to Mark would stress him out, with the whole stalker thing he’d been doing. 

Maybe that’d be a good thing. If he had something to say to her, then he needed to say it. 

“Been tryin’ out this time for a few days,” he said. “Not as crowded. Missed seein’ you, though.” He grinned. He had nice teeth. He looked like he took really good care of himself, in general. 

“So,” she said, swaying her hips a little, as she fidgeted with the strap on her water bottle. She decided to skip all the bullshit and just go for it. “I was thinking… maybe we could go get a drink sometime?” 

“Yeah?” He smiled again. “I’d be up for that. When were you thinking?” 

“I dunno, when are you free?” 

“I got night duty for the next week, but how about after that?” 

She was a little disappointed— she’d never been good at patience— but she tried not to show it. Flashed him one of her open smiles, and said, “Sounds good.” 

“Cool,” he said, stepping backward. “Catch you later, then.” 

“See ya,” she said, watching him pivot and walk away, toward the locker rooms, one of his friends rejoining him on the way. She could tell that he knew she was looking at his ass— he looked back once and wagged his eyebrows at her, and it made her giggle. 

“Hey Lewis,” said another voice— this one more gruff: it was Mark’s other friend— Kyle? Kurt? He’d stayed behind, apparently not done with his workout yet. His eyes dropped to her breasts— contained, but certainly not disguised, in her purple spandex crop-top— before moving back to her face. “If, uh… you can’t wait that long, I got some free time tonight.” 

“Uh… that’s okay,” she said, giving him a little smile as she stepped back, to show him there were no hard feelings. “I’m good.” 

He dropped his grin. 

“Whats’a matter, huh? You’d give it up to Mark, but I’m not good enough for you?” He stepped into her space just a tick. 

She should have just let it go. Creeps like him were a dime-a-dozen. She responded before she could think better of it. 

“What makes you think I’d even _consider_ you,” she countered, taking another step back. 

“What?” He sounded incredulous, like he’d never been turned down before. Which was hard to believe, with how utterly charming he was being. 

“Look—” she started to say, forcing herself to soften a little: wanting to defuse the situation. She’d been about to apologize for her rude comment— not that she should have had to, but this guy was setting off all her alarms, and she just needed to get rid of him. 

“Save it,” he said, cutting her off. “You’re too fat for me anyway.” 

“Hey, _fuck you_, buddy,” she said, her face hardening. 

He was right up in her space now— she could smell the stale sweat on him. 

“Cunt.” 

She took another step back, and her heel bumped into a stack of round barbell weights that some asshole had left on the mats, and just as she could feel herself falling backward, throwing her hands back to break her fall, there was a blur of motion in front of her: it was John Brennan, and he was shoving Kyle or Kurt or whatever-the-fuck his name was, away from her, toward the wall next to the mirrors. 

Kyle tried to avoid Brennan with a body feint, saying, “Hey, asshole,” and tried to get a swing in, but Brennan blocked him easily, grabbing his wrist, and then pushed him roughly into the wall, pinning him there with his flesh forearm, wedging it right under the guy’s jaw, his prosthetic hand curled into a fist. Kyle had been about to fight back, but then all at once he seemed to realize who he was dealing with, and he put up his hands in surrender, even as he sneered at the other man. “This ain’t none of your business, man,” he said. 

“It’s everyone’s business,” said Brennan, “when someone’s treatin’ a lady like that.” His eyes were boring into Kyle’s, unwavering, as he kept the man immobilized against the wall. His voice was low— a little scary— and Darcy realized it was the first time she’d actually heard him speak. 

“You gonna apologize?” he said, without letting up the pressure on Kyle’s neck. 

“Fuck you, freak,” said Kyle, and then he laughed a little. “What’s it to you, anyway, huh? You itchin’ for a piece of that yourself, is that it?” His tone was derisive. “Good luck with that.” 

About a dozen people had gathered around to see what was going on— maybe ready to pull them apart if they started to get into it, but nobody was interfering yet. 

Brennan didn’t respond to the insult— just pressed his lips together, his gaze intense as he pressed even harder on the guy’s neck. Kyle was clearly getting uncomfortable, but he just grinned back at the other man— mocking him— and then spat in his face. 

“Hey!” It was a sharp, female voice, and the small circle of people turned and then parted, making way for Agent Melinda May; she’d been in the middle of a kickboxing lesson on the other side of the gym. Agent May was practically a legend— an expert in all things combative; nobody would have fucked with her even if she hadn’t outranked all of them. 

“Brennan!” she barked out, coming to a stop a few paces from the men. “Stand down.” 

Darcy was still leaning back on her ass and elbows, there on the mats where she’d fallen— frozen, watching it all unfold. She could see Brennan shut his eyes: concentrating, like he was trying to get a hold of himself. The other guy was struggling a little, trying to break free from the pin, but he was obviously outmatched— Brennan too strong for him. 

“Stand _down_,” said May once again— this time with a dangerous edge to her voice. 

There was a long pause while everyone waited, breathless, to see what would happen: whether Agent May would have to take on the guy with the metal hand. 

And then all at once Brennan lowered his arms and stepped back, exhaling heavily as he released Kyle, who forced out another laugh: a show of empty bravado, in an obvious attempt to save face. 

“Are we done here?” said May, her voice stern. Nobody answered— Brennan was looking down and to the side, still breathing heavily through his nose. Used the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe the spit off his face. 

“I said, are we _done_ here.” May was looking back and forth between the two men, her face conveying just how serious she was. 

“Yeah, we’re done,” said Kyle, his voice making it into a joke, as he continued to stare at Brennan. He turned his head and spat again, this time on the floor. 

May didn’t blink. “I want to see both of you in my office in fifteen minutes,” she said. “Go get cleaned up.” She waited until Kyle backed away— turned and headed off to the locker rooms— and then she looked around at the spectators still lingering. “Get back to your workouts,” she snapped. 

As they drifted away, May considered Brennan silently, not making any move toward him. When she spoke, her voice was softer, but still commanded attention. “You all right? You got it under control?” 

Darcy could hear him blow out a slow breath, and then he nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. M’sorry.” 

May turned to glance down to Darcy. “What about you? You all right?” 

“Yeah,” said Darcy. “I just tripped. I’m fine.” 

“Okay,” said May, and then she let out a breath, maybe releasing her own adrenaline. She raised her eyebrows at Brennan, made sure he was listening. “My office. Fifteen minutes.” She waited until he’d nodded, acknowledging her, his hands on his hips, and then she walked away. 

And then they were alone, at least relatively— the gym still buzzing, but people keeping their distance now. Darcy made no move to push herself up— just watched him as he stood there, his gaze still averted. 

She was sorting through it— not sure how she even felt about it, how she was meant to interpret it. He’d just made it a lot more personal, jumping in to defend her like that, in front of dozens of witnesses. 

Part of her was disgusted by his behavior— she hated that kind of base, macho bullshit— but another part of her couldn’t help secretly liking it. Liking that he’d tried to put that asshole in his place. 

Finally he let out a long breath, moved his flesh hand up to his hair, dragging his nails back through it, away from his forehead, and said, “_Fuck_,” almost a whisper. 

It was odd, being this close to him, hearing his voice. It felt like with all the borderline stalking he’d been doing, they already had some kind of strange, dysfunctional relationship, even though they'd never had so much as a conversation. 

If nothing else, she was glad this little ugliness had finally forced some kind of real interaction; maybe now they could figure out a way to acknowledge it and move on. It didn’t seem like he was going to say anything, though, so she decided to go first. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, and then she practically frowned at herself. Again: the instinct to apologize, even though she was the only one who hadn’t done anything wrong. It was such a girl thing to do, and it irritated her. 

“I mean, I’m sorry you’re gonna get written up or whatever, over that creep,” she said, trying to clarify it. “He’s _so_ not worth it.” 

* * *

She was still sitting there on the floor— he should help her up. Be a fuckin’ gentleman. Not the violent brute he’d just proven himself to be, right in front of her. He was ashamed. He hadn’t even thought about what he was doing; he’d just acted on instinct. 

“He’s _so_ not worth it,” she was saying. 

John considered her words as he finally looked at her. She was so close— just a few feet away. Her face was still flushed from exertion, or maybe from the drama he’d created. 

_No, he ain’t_, was his thought. _But you are_. 

She was looking up at him with her big blue eyes, and he could see the concern on her face. Concern for _him_, and how the fuck did he deserve that? He could feel his heart picking up. She was so lovely that it hurt a little, being this close to her. 

_Do something, you asshole. Help her up_. He held out his hand, and the words spilled out of him automatically, wanting to say something to cheer her up: to brush away all the ugliness that jerk had laid upon her. 

“My ma always told me,” he said, “There ain’t no shortage o’ shit in this world.” 

As soon as he’d said it, he breathed out, his forehead pinching in confusion— why the fuck had he said that? His ‘ma?’ His _‘ma’?_

Since when did he even _remember_ having a mother, much less anything she might have said to him on the regular, and something so specific… and as soon as he’d had the thought, he was almost swaying, rudderless, because he wasn’t in the gym anymore; he wasn’t anywhere— he was inside a thought, a memory… like a pressure behind his eyes, pulling him under, sensations coming at him all at once like he’d been submerged inside of them, drowning under thick water… 

He could see… shoes. Black shoes of worn leather, with chunky heels… hear the swish of a skirt as it went by… 

There was a radio on, a band playing… an orchestra softly running a stream of sound as a man’s voice slowly crooned… _don't run under a tree… there’ll be pennies from heaven for you and me_… 

He could smell potatoes boiling, and something else: a bitterness, green… and a woman’s voice, faraway… _c’mon Jimmy… come an’ give us a hand_… 

When he came back to himself, she was still staring at him. She looked frightened, and he took a step back, letting his hand drop. 

What had he done. Why was she looking at him like that. 

He felt like he was going to throw up. 

“Are you okay?” he managed to say— needing to know, needing that information more than anything else— and then he could flee, could go somewhere quiet, alone… try to figure out what was happening, what was wrong with him, why he was having fucking _hallucinations now_… 

Maybe the meds, the new dosage… 

Or maybe he was finally losing it, for real… 

She didn’t answer him— just made a sound almost like a whimper, making his eyes snap back to her face: she looked about as sick as he felt. He’d scared her again. 

He realized that they were still in the gym… that there were people around, some of them glancing over at them now, uneasily, wondering what was going on— why the freak with the arm was making the pretty girl cry, and he needed to get out of there… 

* * *

Her whole life, Darcy had been waiting to hear that unique string of words. Had wondered at the old-fashioned sound of them, the street talk. The ‘_ma_’ and the ‘_ain’t_’… what kind of a person was this guy? 

Jane had thought he sounded dumb… certainly no rocket scientist… had wanted someone smarter, more sophisticated for her friend… 

But Darcy…. Darcy had always liked it. 

“… _ain’t no shortage of shit in this world_…” 

The subtle bit of snark, the implied fondness for his mom in the first part… and the curse-word had made her feel cool— maybe a little dangerous— walking around with all of that curling around her left tit, the words becoming clear as puberty had taken hold. 

Other people got stuck with boring, unoriginal crap like ‘_Nice to meet you_’ or, ‘_What time is it?_’ 

She’d felt lucky. She’d gotten something interesting… full of flavor. Personality. Her fella was gonna be someone to reckon with; she could just feel it. 

And now… 

Fucking hell… 

Here he was. A somewhat creepy, stalking, potentially-a-serial-killer one-armed man who’d pulled a gun on her the first time she’d seen him, and who’d almost just choked a guy with his arm, right in front of her eyes. 

She thought back— felt frantic with it, needing to remember: what had she said to him? That first time? 

He hadn’t reacted at all, when she’d spoken to him, down in the basement… but maybe that was why… but no— he would have told her, right? He would have _had_ to, by now; it’d been a week or more… but she had to be sure, and she swallowed, and looked up at him, and he looked sick— he looked like a crazy person— and she forced the question out: 

“In the basement… your words… did I— did I say— is that why you’ve been—” 

He was looking at her, confused, and then all at once he seemed to understand, and he was shaking his head, took a step back, and he looked so sad… 

“No… you’re not… I already…” 

He didn’t have to say more; she could read the answer on his face, read between the few words he’d managed to get out… 

And she could feel the tears getting heavier in her eyes, because it wasn’t fair— for either of them… 

This wasn’t happening… 

It was so rare, a mismatch: even more rare than a blank. _But not unheard of_, she knew. Someone out there had to make up that less-than-one percent. Someone had to draw the shitty card, be the statistic. 

That someone was her. 

“M’sorry,” he said again, and he was backing up, trying to get away from her. His lips moved again, no words coming out, and then he turned on his heel and fled. 

She watched him leave. Her soulmate. Turn around and go. Nothing to offer her, even as he’d just bound her to him, with no do-overs, no rewinding, no fixing it; and she realized as the door swung shut behind him— as he disappeared once again— that she hadn’t even told him what’d happened… what he’d done. 

She’d just sat there, stunned— let him walk away… or run, more like— and now he wouldn’t know, unless she tracked him down again, told him. Unless he could put it together himself, once he stopped to think: to wonder why she’d asked… 

What would even be the point? He’d just doomed her: tied her heart to him forever— a man who would never love her back, the way she ought to be… deserved to be. He’d already been claimed by someone else— fate had already bound his soul to another, and where the fuck were _they?_ Why weren’t they taking care of him? 

She supposed it was because whoever they were, he hadn’t said their words. He was just like her, stuck being bound to someone who didn’t love him back. Maybe that’s why he was so fucked up. 

Not that any of it mattered. Knowing the answers wouldn’t help her at all. 

Why couldn’t he have kept his fucking mouth shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry: I'm not gonna drag out the whole "oh noooo they are kept apart b/c of a misunderstanding / miscommunication" thing, because I HATE that. They will be talking again soon.
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  



	8. Chapter 8

Even as he was fleeing the gymnasium, his instincts were telling him to _stop_. 

_Go back_. 

He fought down the feeling, grit his teeth through the sheer wrongness he felt in leaving her there, knowing it was illusory— he needed to leave her alone. 

He didn’t understand what was happening to him. The fight, the strange memory… 

It had to be the drugs. The higher dosage. Fucking with his head, with his impulse-control… He wondered if _stalking_ was on the list of potential side-effects… 

He’d completely lost it back there; part of him had wanted to crush that guy’s throat… to keep pressing into it, until he felt it crunch, just like in his dream. If Agent May hadn’t intervened… 

_Fuck_— Agent May. 

He was already halfway down to the basement, and he swore and jabbed at the button to go back up. When the car stopped, the doors opening on the lower level, he pressed the ‘_door close_’ button repeatedly until they shut again, and then the car jerked and began to move upward again. He shut his eyes, breathed in through his nose for five counts, held it, and then let it out slowly through his mouth for another count of five. 

Did it again. 

And again. 

Nobody else got on during the ride back up, and by the time the elevator stopped on the correct floor, he felt about twelve percent calmer. 

He didn’t want to have to see that scumbag again. The guy who’d come onto his girl in such a crude way. Had treated her like a piece of meat, called her names… 

_His girl_. What in the hell… 

_She's not yours._

_For God’s sake, get a hold of yourself_. 

It’d been hard enough watching her smile and talk to that other guy: the decent one, with the blond hair— making plans to step out with him. To be with him. 

Just thinking about it— of them being together— was getting his blood up again, and he paused just outside of May’s office and closed his eyes again, forced himself into a semblance of self-control. He just needed to get through this, and then he could go back to his room. 

He opened his eyes, let out the breath he’d been holding, and knocked on the door. 

“Come in.” 

He opened the door and stepped in: fuck-face was already in there, standing at parade rest in front of May’s desk, his hands adjoined at the small of his back. John stepped up and took up a similar stance, beside him: falling in, though he wasn’t even military anymore. It just felt natural— his muscles deciding more than his head. 

And just like that, he was gone again: another one, just like in the gym— lost inside a memory… 

There was a man, in uniform— his CO, maybe— angry, pacing around him… 

_Don’t respond… don’t move a muscle_… 

He could smell blood. Taste it, in his mouth. The man struck him across the face, hard… 

And then he was back. He was still standing there, rigid. Eyes front. No man there, in front of him. Just the guy from the gym— standing to his left, silent… and May, there at her desk… neither of them aware that anything was amiss. 

_What the fuck was going on…_

It had to be the drugs… He should stop taking them. 

May was talking. He needed to pay attention. 

There was a short Q&A, during which neither of the men told the truth, and then May gave them the expected dressing-down for their shitty behavior, and issued a strict warning of serious consequences should the issue persist, either publicly or privately. After a verbal commitment from each of them to leave the conflict behind, they were both excused. 

He wasn’t looking forward to sharing the hallway with the other man, even for the short walk back to the elevator. Fortunately, May stopped him just as he was turning to go. 

“Brennan, hold up.” 

He turned back, assumed the same, semi-formal position, and heard the door shut behind him as the other man exited. May glanced up at him from her desk— she was finishing up the incident report. 

“At ease,” she said, instinctively falling into the familiar parlance of military procedure... maybe something about his own manner inviting it… 

She signed the report and leaned back, considering him, tapping the pen lightly on the arm of her task chair as she watched him silently. He’d heard people saying she had heightened intuition— could see right through a man— but maybe it was just a rumor. 

“You doing okay?” she asked, as her eyes bore into him. “Anything I should know?” 

“No, sir,” he said. “I mean, ma’am. I’m fine.” 

He could tell she wasn’t buying it— had probably seen through the bullshit during the Q&A, too. 

He’d met her before— had come over with her on the transport plane, along with her partner, Agent Coulson: the man who’d been the first to question him after he’d woken up. They’d talked some, during the flight, and they’d helped him get oriented in his position here. Both she and Coulson had been nothing but kind to him. 

If she took offense at his lie, she didn’t show it. 

“You wanna tell me what really happened back there?” she said. 

His instinct was to keep his mouth shut. He assumed anything he said would be shared with his therapist. Used against him. The altercation in the gym would certainly be a topic at his next session. He wasn’t looking forward to it. 

As if she could read his mind, she said, “You can speak freely. I’ve already finished my report. Anything else you want to say is strictly off the record.” She tapped her pen a few more times. “Warner. He say something to you?” 

Who the fuck was Warner. He must be the guy. The asshole. He took another minute to think about it. “He was being disrespectful to the lady,” he finally said. 

She furrowed her brow. “The woman on the mats? Purple top?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“He put his hands on her?” 

“No ma’am. But he was… getting in her space. Saying… disrespectful things.” 

“Okay. But why the extreme response? Who is she to you?” 

“Nobody, ma’am. That is… I mean, I barely know her. She, uh… she delivered some items to me for repair about a week ago.” 

“Uh huh.” She was tapping her pen again, and then she abruptly tossed it onto the desk. “You could have killed him, you know.” 

He had nothing to say to that. She was right. He could have. 

Agent May knew more than most: knew how strong he really was. Even at the gym, just doing his workouts, he held back a little, not wanting anyone to see how much he could really curl, how much he could bench. People already thought he was a freak. 

He knew she was going very easy on him. That if they’d needed an excuse to fire him, this would have been more than enough. He didn’t understand her restraint. 

“I want you to know,” she said, her eyes seeming to penetrate him. “You can always come to me, or to Phil, if you… well. If you need anything.” 

It was a strange thing to say. He wasn’t even in her department. He reported to Peck for work-related issues. To his therapist, for personal matters. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

She considered him for another minute, her eyes softening a little, and then she leaned back again and let out a sigh. “That’ll be all,” she said. “You can go.” 

He nodded to her politely, turned on his heel, and left. He could feel her watching him as he let himself out. 

* * *

As soon as he was gone, Agent May opened up her laptop and pulled up the security program, and did a sort-and-download request for any and all video captures of John Michael Brennan from the previous two weeks, ending with that morning’s feed from the gymnasium. 

Forty minutes later, she was talking to Phil; he was in the air somewhere over Utah, on his way back from New York, via another, undisclosed location in the Pacific northwest. He’d had a busy but exciting week, being one of just a handful of individuals who’d been privileged to personally witness the thawing-out of one Steven Grant Rogers. After Rogers had tried to escape into the streets of Manhattan, he’d been moved to a more secure, secluded location, to begin what was sure to be an arduous process of assimilation into a brand-new world, where almost everyone he’d known was now dead… 

It was probably the highlight of Phil’s life thus far— meeting Captain America— though he’d insisted that honor belonged to the first time he’d met May: when she’d stepped into his office and said his words. It’d made her smile: it was a sweet thing to say, but she knew better. 

She also knew how conflicted he must have been, having to hold back that key piece of information: the truth about Barnes... a lifeline he could have offered to Rogers at a time when he needed it most... but it wasn't Phil's place to disclose it. 

It had to have been a terrible burden, knowing it; having to choose to remain silent, as his job required… 

“What’s going on?” he said, when he answered her call, and then, “God, I’m tired.” 

“What time do you land?” she said. 

“In…” There was a pause, and she knew he was looking at his watch. “About thirty-seven minutes. Why?” 

“Something’s going on with Brennan,” she said. 

* * *

Darcy didn’t even try to make it into work. 

She’d fled the scene shortly after Brennan's own panicked exit— managed to hold back the tidal wave of emotion that was waiting to break all her walls down, until she’d made it to the residential wing. 

Tears were already forming as she fumbled with the electronic lock on her door, fucking it up the first two tries, like some teenager in a horror movie, frantically trying to get into a locked car. It was just a simple palm-reader, but you needed to hold your hand steady for a couple of seconds, and she was anything but steady at the moment... 

“Come on, goddammit,” she said, slamming her palm on the door in frustration as the lock buzzed red again. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry, and she was already crumbling… 

She finally got it right and was granted entrance to her room. Once inside, she pivoted around and pushed the door shut, re-engaged the lock, and then leaned into the door, pressing her forehead to it, trying to breathe… seeing if she could possibly keep it together— to lie, even to herself: pretend it was going to be okay. 

She hung on for a few more seconds and then finally gave into it, simply sliding down the door as her legs gave out, collapsing there in the entryway by the dirty piles of shoes, the sobs coming thick and heavy… 

She let it out for a while, there on the floor, the waves of it racking her like she was vomiting sadness… 

There was a brief respite, like the eye of a storm, during which she half-crawled, half stumbled her way over to the couch in her tiny livingroom. She stretched out on it, and then rolled onto her side, just staring blankly for a few minutes. All was still, and then she could feel it coming on again as she replayed it over in her head: his face, his voice, the words... 

She gave into it, letting the surge of emotion consume her once more. This one was longer. 

Darcy wasn't usually a cryer. She tended to use humor and snark to get through things, joking her way past the pain or the fear. This was different. This was her _life_ and it'd just taken a major swerve into a ditch. Or off a cliff, more like... 

She cried until she was too exhausted to continue, gasping in between the waning bouts… until there was nothing left but an emptiness and the sound of her own shuddering breaths, her entire face aching from it. 

Jane. She needed to call Jane. 

She sat up, sniffling, and looked around for her wristlet: she must have dropped it by the entryway when she’d first come in. She pushed herself up off the couch and shuffled over to the door, bending over to grab the little zippered purse off the floor. She unzipped it and pulled out her phone on the way back to the couch, and then sat down heavily, the cushions swallowing her up. Her fingers were shaking as she pressed the button to wake up the phone, and then she tapped open the messaging app and thumbed out her plea: 

_Call or text ASAP. Need you_. 

She knew it would probably be hours before Jane responded, even with that dire-sounding text. Sometimes Jane didn’t even get out of bed until after lunchtime, and even then, she’d often forgotten to charge up her phone overnight, and wouldn’t even think to plug it in until it was time to order food. Without Darcy there to manage things, Jane was a scattered mess. 

Now it was Darcy's turn to be a mess. She was hoping for a miracle: that Jane was awake, that she'd remembered to charge her phone. That she'd feel the ripple of need coming from hundreds of miles away, and check her messages. Darcy needed her friend. 

She lay down on her side again, curling up a little, clutching the phone to her chest. She felt small. Like a child, ill-equipped to cope with the realities and responsibilities of being a grownup. Like going to work. _Fuck._ How the hell was she supposed to go to work like this? She opened up messages again, without bothering to sit up. Sent another text to her supervisor: told her she wasn't feeling well, was staying home for the day. 

Even as she sent the text, she knew she couldn't just lie there all day, cycling through the same thoughts over and over, steeping in the sadness, but she didn’t know what else to do. 

There was an urge to run— to get away. To sign out a car and… what? Where could she even go? She could drive the ten hours to Jane, but not with a company car; stealing a car from SHIELD was not advisable. 

There was nowhere to go in town, if you could even call it that: it was just a desert outpost, twenty miles away— nothing but gas and water and the shitty little bar next door. She wondered where the nearest Greyhound stop was; maybe she could have Kim or Andy give her a ride… get on a bus, just go somewhere… anywhere but here… 

She couldn’t imagine confessing to them what’d happened, though: why she was running. She’d have to come up with some other story. A death in the family, something like that. It would explain her emotional state, too. She’d go, and then… simply not return. Suffer through the separation pangs that were sure to come, and… 

And then what. Live out the rest of her days knowing she’d always be alone? Watch everyone around her find the loves of their life while she… what? Scrolled for fellow tragedies to hook up with on _Soul’oh_? The app had a search filter for people like her: for the so-called ‘one-sides’, who were even more pathetic than the blanks— doomed to love someone with a ferocity that would never be returned. 

Her phone buzzed and she flipped it over, hoping for Jane, but it was just her supervisor, approving the sick day and wishing her a speedy recovery. Darcy knew that the woman meant it, and not just in the _get-back-to-work sense_: she was an honest-to-god nice person, and it made her feel a little guilty about the lie. 

Darcy had liked this job, even if it hadn’t been her dream career. The pay had been great, and she’d met some halfway-decent people. She’d always felt safe. 

She was never going to make it to her future now... her fantasy: that sunny, sleepy, oceanside bar where she’d always imagined living out her days with her soulmate by her side, serving up mai-tais and margaritas… 

She’d go back to working for Jane, where she’d relocated just outside of Albuquerque. Get a job waiting tables on the side, just to cover her basic expenses. It’d be a dead-end, but still better than staying here… having to see _him_… 

God. _Him_. 

She thought of the way his face had looked, as he’d stood there in the gym, lost in his own thoughts somewhere, after he’d said her words. He’d seemed… imbalanced. She didn’t know how anyone could look so beautiful and so fucked up at the same time. 

She wondered if he’d figured it out yet: what he’d done to her. Wondered what he would do, once he realized. Would he come to her? Try to take advantage of her need? 

She didn’t think so. 

It didn’t matter what he did. Even if he were the perfect gentleman, and not the weird, lurking, maybe-a-stalker nutcase he was sizing up to be — if he offered himself up as a friend, so that she could at least get the physical contact she would soon be craving... to help her out with some platonic hugs, maybe some innocent hand-holding— even then, she didn’t think she could bear it, knowing that it could go no further; not without breaking her heart. 

She needed to come up with a plan. She needed to talk to Jane— a voice of reason— come up with real, actionable steps. Otherwise she was just going to wind up hiding in her apartment, crying like some stupid kid. 

She got up and made her way over to the little bathroom, taking the phone with her. She set it down on the vanity, avoiding her own reflection in the mirror above it. The taps squeaked as she rotated them, turning on hot and cold, and then she slowly stripped off her spandex workout clothes, feeling tired and sore and stupid: like she’d been beaten up. 

And then she couldn’t help it— as she waited for the water to heat up, she looked down at the black letters that twined around the swell of her left breast like a tattooed bend of underwire. Traced over them with her fingertips, starting with ‘_My ma_’ just under the armpit, the rest of the words following a curved line under and around her breast until they looped back up in a wide spiral, the word “_shit_” done up just as beautifully as any of the others, the rest of it ending in a delicate little curlicue just above her nipple. 

She’d always loved the incongruity of that: the crass-sounding phrase scrolling across her skin so delicately, like something on a fancy wedding invitation. 

Now she wanted to scrape it out: take a razor to it. Brutalize the lie of its beauty. Rid herself of the reminder of him, and the way his voice had sounded when he’d said it: soft and maybe even a little flirty— everything she’d imagined, hoped for— as he’d held his hand out to her… the words so sensual, falling from his lips. 

God, his _lips_… her brain brought up the memory of them: how they’d looked so soft and— 

_No_. 

She stepped into the shower and let the hot water beat down on her skin. Tried to burn the feeling away. 

* * *

She dressed robotically and checked her messages: nothing. Reserved a car for checkout at 3pm— the earliest estimated availability. Her stomach was growling. She hadn’t had anything to eat since before her workout, and her body didn’t give a shit that she was in crisis: it just kept on _needing_. 

She couldn’t imagine the act of chewing. Food sounded terrible. But drinking? Hell yes. She just had to make it ’til three, and then it was a twenty-minute drive into town, and she could buy a bottle… 

Checked her messages again. _Come on, Jane. Wake up. Plug in your phone_. 

She lay down on her bed, feeling stiff. Stared at the ceiling. She felt like an unreal thing. Like a mannequin: cold and dead. She closed her eyes. 

* * *

He was waiting for her, there in the dream… his hands on her, the rough pads of his fingertips tracing over his words: the proof there on her skin, as she stood bare before him, her body slotted between his spread legs at the edge of her bed. He’d stepped backward to sit down, pulling her into him, and she tipped her head back, eyes falling shut as she let him feel her: first with his fingers, and then with his mouth, his lips following the line of letters, kissing her along the way, reading them with his breath until they curved around to the center, circling her nipple… 

He was taking it slow, feeling her shape with his tongue, warming her with his mouth, until he finally sighed and latched on, pulling on the peak of her hardening flesh, and he moaned against her skin as she pushed her fingers into his hair, dragged her nails against his scalp… and when she opened her eyes, dropping her head to look back down at him, he exhaled, releasing her flesh… slowly lifted his face to stare at her with his silver-blue eyes, his lips soft and wet, and he smiled, just a little— and it made something bloom inside of her, and she loved him, she _loved_ him… and they were happy, and he was _hers_… 

Her phone chimed— loudly— startling her awake from the dream, and she fumbled for it on the bedside table, trying to ignore the ache between her legs, the way she could still feel his mouth on her… 

_No_, she thought, furiously. _I refuse_. 

_It’s never gonna be like that_. 

It was what her body wanted, what her subconscious brain believed. What was supposed to be. 

It was a goddammed lie. 

She rolled over and checked her phone— it was just the car service, sending her an update. Someone had dropped off early, so she could pick up whenever she wanted. She pushed herself out of bed and shuffled across the floor like a zombie, back to the bathroom. 

She took a look at herself in the mirror. The harsh lighting made it look worse than it probably was, but it was still depressing. She looked like a mug shot. Someone who’d had a rough night. Someone who’d made poor decisions. 

Only none of this had been her decision. 

“Fuck you, fate,” she said quietly, as she stared at her own puffy face, the skin around her eyes swollen from crying. She was debating just skipping the makeup entirely: it wasn’t like she was gonna fool anyone. It’d be like putting a bow on a car-crash victim. 

She just needed to not look insane while she signed out the car, and while she was buying her booze. The workers at the gas station and the roadside bar weren’t the type to judge, but there were usually a few people from the base hanging out at the bar, at any given hour of the day. She didn’t want to call attention to herself by looking like something terrible had happened. Even though it was the truth: Something terrible had happened. 

She slid open the top drawer on the vanity, got out her loose powder and her makeup brush, and did what little she could to fix her face in five minutes. She had shoes and sunglasses on, ready to go, in another ten. 

* * *

The line was short at the vehicle bay— only one other person in front of her— and she pulled out her phone while she waited, opened a group text to Andy and Kim. 

_Hey I’m doing a town run. Need anything?_

Kim wrote back almost immediately: _I knew u weren’t really sick! What’s up? U got a hangover?_

_Not yet_, she replied. _But check with me this time tomorrow_. 

_Uh oh_, said Andy, joining the conversation. _What happened_. 

She found she wasn’t ready to outright lie to her friends, after all. They were idiots sometimes, but they were good people. _I’ll tell u later_, she wrote. _I’m up for my car. Gotta go. If u think of anything u want let me know in the next 20 min._

She clicked the phone off and moved up to the window. 

“Hi,” she said, to the bored-looking guy behind the glass, as she slid her ID into the little depression beneath the window. “Lewis. Darcy,” she said. “Picking up.” 

* * *

“What’s he doing?” said Coulson. He was leaning over May at her desk, looking at the security footage she’d flagged. There was an overhead view of a long-haired woman with her hands up, backing away from Brennan in his little workshop. 

“He pulled a gun on her,” he said, surprised, as he watched it unfold. 

“She startled him,” said May. 

The woman’s back was to the camera, so they couldn’t tell what she was saying, if she was even talking to him. He was just staring at her, and then he looked down and dropped the weapon to the desk like it’d burned him— looked at his open hand for a few seconds, and then back to the TV-screen on the wall. He seemed to be in a daze. 

“Huh,” said Coulson. 

“Yeah.” 

“Wish we had a better view of her,” he said. “Do we know who she is?” 

“Yeah,” said May. “I figured it out from the rest of the footage. He’s been stalking her.” 

“What?” 

Coulson had kept tabs on Brennan over the past year: watching, waiting for any signs that he was remembering his past, or that he was being contacted by anyone on the outside. The man had been quiet the whole time. A model employee, if socially isolated. Stayed under the radar. Did his work, kept to his routine. Never missed a therapy appointment. Stalking didn’t fit with his profile at all. 

“Not in a… criminalistic way,” she clarified. “For the most part, he’s kept his distance. But he’s been watching her, and she’s definitely aware of it.” 

“But she hasn’t reported it?” 

“No,” said May. “Her name’s… Lewis,” she added, checking her notes. “Darcy Lewis. Been here about a year. Came over with Dr. Selvig.” 

“She was with Foster, in New Mexico,” said Coulson. 

“Right.” 

He leaned in over her shoulder again, peering at the laptop screen. “You sure that’s their first contact?” 

“Yeah,” she said, and then twisted her head up to look at him. “What’re you thinking?” 

“She could have said his words.” 

“I thought he already—” 

He shook his head. “We don’t know that for sure. It was one possibility, one explanation. It was the story we gave to him, to explain his… abilities. It was the best possible option, given the circumstances.” 

“You serious?” she said, and he could feel the judgement in her voice. He accepted it: it was no worse than the way he already judged himself, for what’d been a difficult yet necessary decision. He took no pleasure in the cruelty of it— only hoped the man would forgive him, if the truth came out some day... 

“Well,” she said, raising her eyebrows as she swiveled back around to go through the footage again. “I mean, it would certainly explain his odd behavior, but…” 

“But what?” 

“If his enhancements didn’t come from a word-bond, then…” She let the thought trail off and then said, “They confirmed he’s not a mutant?” 

“Not that they could determine.” Coulson shook his head again. “It can’t be definitively ruled out— there’s always new stuff coming up… But…” 

It was her turn to say it: “But what?” 

“I can’t help thinking… especially with everything that’s happened in the past week… you know what his skill-set reminds me of?” 

It didn’t take her long to follow his line of thinking. “Captain Rogers,” she said. 

“Yeah. And with the way we found him… and the _where_…” 

“You think someone out there’s been trying to make super soldiers?” 

“We know Hydra had him long enough to do _something_,” said Coulson. “Back in the 40s. The men who made it out of that camp mentioned rumors of medical torture in their reports. Barnes himself stated for the record that he’d been drugged repeatedly with unknown substances. At the time, the assumption was that they’d been victims of medical experimentation— like what the Nazi physicians were tried for at Nuremberg… The base was destroyed, so there was no way to verify anything…” 

She was quiet for a minute, thinking about it. 

“And then he somehow survived that fall,” he added. 

“You think he’s Hydra?” she asked. 

“I don’t think he knows it, if he is…” He leaned on the desk, his palms braced on the edge of it. “But we can’t rule it out,” he said. “It fits.” 

“But if that’s the case, why would someone just leave him to an eternity of deep storage, in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere?” 

“Maybe something went wrong,” he said. “Maybe he was malfunctioning, or—” He cut himself off. “Where is he now?” 

She swiveled around, went back to the active security program, ran a check for Brennan— the system had a log of all the places he’d swiped his card, and she narrowed the search to the last few hours. “Oh boy.” 

“What is it?” 

“He just signed out one of the motorcycles.” 

“What about Lewis? Where’s she?” 

May typed the information in, her fingers dancing over the keyboard. 

“Off base. Took out a car. Twenty minutes ago.” 

She looked back at him again, could read the thoughts like he’d said them aloud. Before he even gave the order, she was already standing up. “I’m on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	9. Chapter 9

Peck glanced up from his workbench in the main room, sneaking another look at Brennan, who’d been acting a little off all morning. The man seemed jumpy lately, in general; at the moment, he was pacing back in forth in the private workroom that was connected to his crappy little makeshift apartment. 

Brennan spent most of his time there: in the workroom, silently completing work orders, or shut away in the apartment with its steel door firmly shut. He used to work with the TV on, but a couple of guys had come down and taken it away about a week ago, saying it was some new regulation. Peck knew that was a bunch of horseshit, but he’d played along, acting pissed off on his co-worker’s behalf. Now he was wishing they’d bring it back, give the guy some kind of distraction. The pacing was gonna drive Peck crazy. 

The man wasn’t himself; that was for sure. He’d come back a little late from his regularly-scheduled morning workout, had disappeared into his room to take a shower, and then had come out and sat down to work, only to angrily throw down the GPS unit he’d been running a diagnostic on, after only a few minutes of tinkering. He’d been pacing ever since. 

Peck had never seen the guy so agitated. He was usually quiet— too quiet, for Peck’s taste. It was another reason the loss of the television was a punishment to them both; now there was nothing to fill the empty space— except for, apparently, a bunch of nervous energy. 

Peck’s superiors had told him to keep a closer eye on Brennan: to look for anything out of the ordinary, and report on it. He wondered if this qualified. 

The pacing abruptly stopped, and Brennan exited the small room, shoving his wallet into the back pocket of his pants, his phone into the front. “I’m goin’ to lunch,” he said. 

It was a bit early, but nothing to raise any extra eyebrows. “Kay,” he answered, deliberately keeping his voice nonchalant, his eyes on his own work. He’d reassess after lunch, see if the guy was still worked up. It was probably nothing. 

* * *

John scanned the cafeteria, looking for her. She wasn’t there. Her two friends from the other day were sitting together at a table, and before he could think about what he was doing, he made a beeline for them. They both looked up at him, surprised, when he came to a stop in front of them. 

“Where is she,” he said, without preamble. 

They glanced at each other, like they were communicating— maybe trying to decide if they should tell him or not. 

“I need to talk to her,” he said, impatient. “It’s important.” 

“She went into town,” said the man, and John could see the woman— Kim— kick him hard, under the table. “What,” hissed the guy, with an irritated tone, as he looked at her reproachfully. “He said it was important.” 

“You should text her,” said the woman, who was looking up at him now. “You have her number?” 

“I can find it,” he said, and without further comment, turned and headed toward the exit. 

He could hear the guy murmuring to the woman, as he walked away: “_What the hell was that all about?_” 

* * *

It hadn’t been a lie— not exactly. He did need to talk to her. It _was_ important. He just didn’t know why. Or what he was going to say. It was like he was on autopilot.

He checked the time on his phone. He had time to follow her, into town. See her. Come back. He had all afternoon to finish his work. 

He asked for one of the bikes, like the other times he’d gone out to clear his head, drive around. He’d never gone into town. Never had a reason to, until now. 

It was a single, nearly-straight road, the whole way, and the bike ate up the distance as he pushed it, going fast, nothing on either side of him but scrub-brush and telephone poles and the distant shadows of desert hills on the horizon, his head bare to the wind— chilly, even in the desert, now that the weather had turned. 

His mind sailed through endless spirals as he drove, trying to understand why he was doing this. Why he couldn’t just leave her alone. Realized, as he sifted through the thoughts, that it was becoming irrelevant. 

There were several company cars parked in the dirt lot outside the shitty little roadhouse bar. Any one of them could be hers. He wasn’t prepared to walk into the bar, to confront her inside where other people would be watching. He pulled into the empty service-station next door instead, coasted around to the side, over by the air pump and water dispenser, and cut the engine as he put his feet down. He pulled out his phone, made it look like he was reading something on it, in case anyone was looking. 

A few minutes later, he heard the door to the bar bang shut, and he looked up to see Darcy Lewis striding purposefully from the building over to one of the sedans. She was carrying something in a brown paper bag. A bottle. He put his hand on the key, ready to start up the bike again, but she just got into the car and sat there. Didn’t start up the engine. 

What was she doing? 

His stomach made an angry noise— he hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. He watched her car for a few more minutes and then he got off the bike, went into the filling station and bought a sandwich and a bottle of water, and came back out. The car was still there, with her in it. He settled in to wait. 

* * *

She’d been about to start up the car and drive back, when her phone chimed with a incoming text. _Finally. Jane_.

No. It wasn’t Jane. It was a long text from Mark: cute gym guy. 

_Hey_, it said. _Heard about what happened. With Kyle. Sorry about that. Had no idea the guy was such a jerk. You want me to finish the job? Teach him a lesson?_

She took a deep breath and let it out. Thought about what to say. 

_Just forget it, she wrote. I already have_. 

_Sure thing_, he wrote back, followed by a golden thumbs-up, and then, _Won’t be hanging out with that asswipe anymore, if it makes you feel any better_. 

She didn’t know what to say to that— nothing was going to make her feel better, and she was too tired to bother with an appropriate, polite response. She just waited, to see if that was it. There was a pause, and then she could see the grey bubble indicating that he was typing something, and it came through less than a minute later: 

_So I have to ask. Is there something between you and that guy though? The one with the hand?_

_Yes_, she thought. _But I wish there weren’t_. That’s not what she wrote, though. 

_No_, she typed. _I have no idea why he did that_. 

Mark was quick to reply: _Ok good. Seen him at the gym. Dude’s strong. Wouldn’t wanna get on his bad side_. 

For some reason it made her burst into tears as she sat there, holding the phone in her lap. 

When she didn’t respond, he texted her again. _So we still on for next week?_

She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm, trying to get it together. 

_Yeah_, she wrote, glad he couldn’t see or hear her— know what a mess she was. _Looking forward to it_. 

It was a lie. She wasn’t looking forward to anything. Except for tucking into that bottle of Jameson, alone in her room. 

_Cool_, he wrote back. _Gotta go but I’ll catch up with you later_. 

She didn’t bother answering; just clicked off the phone and threw it onto the passenger seat, pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, rubbing and pushing on her eyeballs, as though she could somehow seal off her tear ducts— make it stop. She was already sick of crying about it. Of feeling pathetic. 

She dropped her hands and just stared unseeing at the steering wheel for a minute, and then wiped off her face again, and started up the car. Reversed out of the dusty lot, and made her way back to the 2-lane highway. If she hadn’t been in such a daze, she would’ve noticed the motorcycle that pulled out of the filling station thirty seconds later, following her at a discreet distance. 

* * *

She was about a third the way back when her phone rang. She grabbed for it, leaning over a little, her face swiveling back and forth between the road and the screen as she looked at it. It was Jane. 

The shoulder of the road was dry and rocky and full of weeds and ancient garbage; she pulled over, the tires rumbling on the rugged strip of dirt, and put the car in park, even as she scrambled to answer the phone. 

“_Jane?_” 

“It’s me,” said the little voice on the other end, and Darcy could have cried again, she was so relieved. “What’s going on?” it squeaked. “Are you okay? Where are you?” 

She couldn’t even answer at first— just fought back the sting of fresh tears as the concerned voice of her friend came through the speaker. 

“What’s happening? Are you there?” 

“I’m here,” she said, her voice a little wobbly. She reached over for the bottle, paper bag and all, and stuck it between her thighs. Moved the seat back. Unscrewed the top of the bottle and took a long swig of the whiskey. The burn as it went down felt good. 

“Darcy, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on.” 

She took one more generous drink, and then screwed the cap back on, still holding the bottle between her thighs. “He said my words.” She almost whispered it. 

“Wait, _what?_ Who? Who did?” 

“This guy,” she said. “A, uh… a maintenance guy, at the base. He’s got a fake hand.” 

“Okay,” said Jane. “I mean… is he nice? What were _his_ words?” 

“I didn’t say them,” she said, crumbling again, with the confession— as if saying it out loud was the final step to admitting that it was real. “He already— he said he—” It was hard to get it out, and she took in a shuddering breath and tried again. “Someone already said his words. I guess, I don’t know. Maybe they’re dead or something.” 

“Oh sweetie, no,” said Jane, and Darcy could hear the real sympathy in her voice; in a way it just made her feel worse. It was confirmation, corroboration: the situation was tragic. Pitiable. 

“I don’t know what to do,” said Darcy, feeling stupid, but so grateful that she didn’t have to pretend with Jane— that she could just be this ongoing disaster, nothing held back. 

“Are you drunk?” 

“God, I wish,” she said. “I mean, that’s the plan. I had a couple shots at the bar.” She sighed. “And now I may or may not be parked on the side of the road, drinking straight from a bottle in a fuckin’ brown paper bag…” 

“Oh Darcy,” said Jane. There was no judgement in her voice— just concern. “You’re not driving, are you? Is someone with you? Can you get someone to come pick you up?” 

“I’ll just walk if I have to,” she said, knowing it was ludicrous to consider, even if it had a certain appeal: She envisioned herself stumbling back the remaining fourteen-odd miles, over the rough terrain of the desert, bottle in hand… it’d take hours. Maybe she’d pass out and die. 

“No you won’t,” said Jane. “Call Eric.” 

Darcy snorted and uncapped the bottle again, took another long pull on it, the liquid sloshing noisily as she put it back down. “You kidding? It’d be safer for me to drive drunk.” 

“Maybe,” said Jane, “but you could still hurt someone else. Promise me you won’t, okay? Can you get an Uber or something?” 

Darcy made another scoffing sound. “Out here? I’m surprised you can even get through to me while I’m off-base.” She pulled the phone away from her face for a second to look: Yeah, one bar. 

“Darcy…” There was the sound of a long sigh on the other end. “I’m so sorry…” 

“I gotta pee,” she said. “Hang on.” 

She turned the key counter-clockwise in the ignition, cutting the engine, and got out of the car, taking the bottle with her, clutching it like a talisman. She slammed the door shut and walked around to the other side of the car, and did a sweep of the desert landscape with her eyes. 

“Fuck,” she said, into the phone, still holding it up to her ear. “There’s nowhere to pee.” 

There was no significant cover for miles, in any direction— just some knee-high, practically see-through bushes that looked well on their way to becoming tumbleweeds. She started to pick her way into the terrain anyway, watching her step, the bottle still gripped in her right hand. 

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and when she glanced over to it, she could see a large, grey-brown snake slithering past, just a few feet away, making her jump back in alarm. 

“Shit.” 

“What is it?” said Jane. 

“Snake,” she said. “Big one.” And then, “Fuck it. I’m not going any further in.” 

She found the biggest creosote bush in the near vicinity, and set the bottle on the ground beside it. She took a last, furtive look around— nobody coming— and then crouched behind the bush and pulled her pants down, breathing out as she emptied her bladder, the phone still held to her ear. “I’m really fucked up,” she said. 

“I can tell,” said Jane. “Please, just get home safe.” 

“I don’t mean drunk,” she said, adding, “yet,” even though she was aware that she was acting like it: she was practically peeing out in the open, in broad daylight, on the side of the highway, with a bottle of whiskey. “I mean, like…” 

“I know,” said Jane. “But still— be careful, okay?” 

“I think I can make it,” she said, sandwiching the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she pulled up her pants. She picked up the bottle again, wobbling a little on the uneven ground. “I’m just a little buzzed. It’s straight the whole way, and there’s no-one else around. The only shitty part will be checking the car in.” 

She stopped to have another drink, fumbling the phone in the process, and bent over to pick it up after she’d screwed the cap back on. “You still there?” she asked, as though she’d dropped Jane, rather than the cellphone. 

“You’re gonna get yourself fired.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” she said. “Maybe that’d be a good thing.” 

She heard a sound in the distance— a motorcycle— and she squinted, could see a lone rider coming from the direction of the town. “Someone’s coming,” she said, and then, “Oh my God,” as he came into view. “It’s him. It’s fucking _him_. He’s still stalking me. What the _fuck_.” 

“What do you mean, _still_ stalking you?” said Jane. “He’s been stalking you?” 

“I gotta get back to the car,” said Darcy, not answering her. “I gotta—” She didn’t finish her thought, was too busy scrambling back over the dusty ground to the sedan, bottle in one hand, phone in the other, popped open the driver’s-side door and slid in, and then quickly locked the doors. Her heart was pounding. She looked in her rear-view mirror and could see him pulling to a stop right behind her car. 

“Fuck,” she whispered. 

“What’s going on? What’s he doing?” 

“I don’t know,” she said, ducking down instinctively. “He must’ve followed me to town…” 

“He could give you a ride.” 

“Are you kidding me?” 

“What? He’s your soulmate, right? He’s not gonna hurt you. He’s supposed to _save_ you.” 

“Does that even work, if it’s only one-sided?” 

“Sure,” said Jane. “I mean, I think so,” she said, sounding more dubious. “I don’t know much about one-sides… they’re so rare. I mean, technically _I’m_ a one-side, but Thor’s a unique case, so…” 

Funny; she’d never even considered that during her waves of self-pity: that Jane was also a one-side. She’d realized it before, of course— but Thor was so obviously gone for Jane that what he lacked in that sort of _fevered_ devotion you’d see in traditional bond-mates, he more than made up for in the unquestionable love he bore for her, _electively_… 

But then, as Jane had said, Thor was unique. He couldn’t be compared to— _God_— to _her_ man, who wasn’t a blank: Brennan was a one-side, like her. His heart forever belonged to someone else, even if that person was dead or had simply abandoned him… 

“God, he’s coming over.” He’d gotten off the bike and was walking up to her door, like a cop doing a traffic stop. She should start up the car— just leave. Leave him in the dust. She didn’t move a muscle. 

“He’s here,” she whispered. 

There was a rap on the driver’s side window. She didn’t even want to look. Didn’t want to see his face. The last time she’d seen it, it’d been in her dream, when he’d smiled at her right after sucking on her tits. Just the thought of it— of his mouth on her flesh, warm and wet and _wanting_— was making her traitor-body ache again— feeling it like a heavy emptiness between her legs… 

She glanced over. He was looking through the window, his hand above his eyes to block the sun as he peered in at her. She could see his mouth form the words: “_You okay?_” And then: “_Open up_.” 

She shook her head no. 

“What’s he doing?” said Jane, who was whispering now too, even though there was no need for her to be quiet on her end. 

“He wants me to open up.” 

“Are you going to?” 

“Hell, no.” 

She glanced over again. He’d straightened up, looked around for a moment, and then he dug into his front pocket, pulled out a smartphone, tapped something into it with the index finger of his flesh hand. It took him a while. A few seconds after he was done, her phone chimed. 

“He’s texting me.” 

She took the phone away from her ear, even as she could hear Jane still talking on the other end. She opened up the messages app. There were two new texts, both from an unknown number: 

_I’m sorry_. 

_Are you all right?_

She put the phone back up to her ear. “I think I gotta deal with this,” she said. “If you don’t hear from me later, send someone out here to look for my chopped-up body parts in the desert.” 

“God, Darcy.” 

“Though I guess it won’t matter then, will it.” 

“Text me when you get back, okay? Let me know you’re all right?” 

“I will.” 

“Love you. Be safe.” 

“Love you too,” she said, her eyes stinging as she ended the call. 

He was still standing there, outside the door. Waiting. She pulled up the messages app again and thumbed out a reply to the unknown number. 

_I’m fine. Go away_. 

She saw him hold the phone closer to his face with his prosthetic hand, looking down at the screen to read her text. He poked at it again with his index finger, one letter at a time— it took forever— and then her phone chimed again. 

_You don’t seem fine_. 

Her response was swift, her thumbs speeding over the little virtual keyboard to tap it out: _Well you’re just gonna have to take my word for it won’t you. Leave me alone. You’re creeping me out_. 

He finished reading it and looked up from the screen, looked at her through the car window. If she was reading his expression correctly, she’d bruised him a little. It made her feel bad, which just pissed her off even more. She hadn’t asked to be watched. Followed. She thumbed out another text. 

_Please. I just wanna be alone_. 

_Alone_, her brain helpfully repeated. Like she was gonna be for the rest of her life, apparently, when she wasn’t engaging in meaningless hookups with other heart-broken losers. 

He turned and walked back to his bike, and she let out a long sigh. She didn’t feel good. The whiskey, and the extra shots at the bar, were starting to sit sour in her stomach. She should have bought something to eat at the filling station. She’d eat something as soon as she got home, and then resume her mission to get completely shit-faced drunk. She’d just wait for him to leave, so she would know he wasn’t following her anymore, and then… 

She looked in her rearview mirror again: He was just sitting there, straddling his bike. He had a bottled water, and he tipped it up to take a drink of it, and then he rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand. 

God, he was pretty. He looked like something from a magazine, there on his bike, with just the right amount of grease in his hair and scruff on his face… Why was fate such a cruel bitch? If she’d said his words, they could be fucking right now… riding off together on his bike, into a future of mutually-bonded bliss… 

She picked up her phone again and sent a new text: _Why aren’t you leaving?_

_Can’t_, came the quick reply. He was getting faster. And then: _Need to know you’re okay_. 

_Why?_ she wrote back. _You don’t even know me. Why do you care_. 

Another quick one: _Just do_. 

_You’re acting like I said your words or something_, she thumbed out. _Well we already established that’s not the case. So you can just go on your merry way_. 

There was a longer pause this time. She almost thought that’d done it. She knew she was being a dick, but she just needed him to _go_. Before she did something stupid that would end up with one of them hurt. Namely, her. 

A chime: _Don’t matter_. 

“Don’t matter?” She actually muttered it, aloud, after she read it. ‘_Don’t matter?_’ Who texts in lower-class vernacular? Her soulmate, apparently. Boy, Jane had been right, all those years ago, about her words. She’d snagged herself a regular Einstein. Somewhere inside her own thoughts, she was aware that she was trying to find reasons to tear him down, and they weren’t even honest. In truth, the better part of her was still that thirteen-year-old girl, dreaming of her street-smart fella, turned on by his rough-edged talk… 

_What DON'T matter_, she wrote back, pointedly mimicking him, just to be an asshole. 

It didn't seem to faze him, because he simply wrote back: _Don’t care about the words_. 

_How nice for you_, she wrote back, feeling her cheeks suddenly heat up— feeling angry— and then she typed it out and sent it before she could reconsider: 

_Because you said mine_. 

There was a much longer pause, and this time she actually turned around in her seat to look behind her, and she could see through the back window of the sedan that he was looking straight at her, from where he was still sitting on his bike. She held his eyes for a good minute— both of them just staring— and then she watched as he slid off the seat of the motorcycle and trudged off into the desert. 

“Fuck,” she said, under her breath, as she watched him go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t be like Bucky. Always wear your helmet.
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  



	10. Chapter 10

John slid off the seat of the motorcycle and stepped away from it, leaving the keys in the ignition, and began to walk, his legs feeling like they couldn’t hold his weight— like they were going to give way any second, and he’d stumble and fall to the ground… come apart on impact, right there on the desert floor. 

“_Because you said mine_…” 

Now it made sense, at least. Why his soulmate, whoever she’d been, had abandoned him. If what the girl— if what _Darcy_ had said— was the truth (and why would she lie, when it was obvious that she wanted nothing to do with him; there was no reason for her to lay false claim to him…) 

If it was true, then that must mean he too was a one-side. Like her. That whichever unlucky person had said his words, back in that unknowable shadowscape of his past, had gotten nothing from him in return. 

No wonder they hadn’t bothered to stick around. 

It was a sad thought, the idea of it: all of them linked to one another, like a chain of broken wanderers, all trapped in an infinite one-way march to death, fated to love the wrong people. 

Where did it end? When someone in the chain found himself linked to a blank, he supposed. Someone who could neither give nor receive what everyone wanted in life, what everyone was waiting to find. He envied that person in a way— that dead-end, because at least a blank was free. Free to feel nothing. Or to make a new reality, where love was a choice, not a compulsion… 

With no memory of the person who’d once held his heart— no memory of the words that had bound him to her, whoever she’d been… no recollection of her voice, saying those forgotten words, unlocking his gifts— he may as well have been a blank. There was no echo of her in his mind. Nobody calling to his soul. She was lost, along with the rest of his past. 

It’d tormented him before, thinking about it. Wondering who she’d been, why she’d left him. Whether it’d been voluntary, or something else— like death—that’d severed them from one another. 

Now he knew that it didn’t matter. They hadn’t been meant for each other anyway. There was nothing to mourn. It was simultaneously devastating, and… freeing. 

Maybe it was a mercy, that he couldn’t remember. Maybe it was what Darcy Lewis now wished for— why she wanted him to leave her alone. So she could try to forget: to erase the knowledge that she was bound to someone whose soul would always face some other direction, reaching for something lost, impossible… 

Only he wasn’t reaching. Did she know that? Hadn’t he made that clear, already, even before he knew the truth? 

He wondered if it would make a difference, if she knew. 

Probably not. 

He’d been walking for ten minutes, without looking back, and he finally stopped: just stood for a moment, listening to the rasp of his throat as he breathed deeply, the dry desert air burning his lungs. He was thirsty. He’d left his water with the bike. Stupid. 

He didn’t want to go back, not while she was still there. He didn’t know if he was running for himself, or for her: to give her a chance… 

He hadn’t heard the car start up, though she’d had plenty of time to leave, without risk of his making it back in time to pursue her. Why hadn’t she gone? It was what she’d wanted. 

It wasn’t very hot— the daytime temperatures had gone from highs in the hundreds to more comfortable seventies and eighties in the past month— but it was still bone dry, and his sinuses began to sting, maybe trying to call forth a gasp of moisture. 

He heard the soft chime of his phone, in his front pocket. He pulled it out, saw the message displayed on the home screen: 

_Are you okay?_

It was unexpected, her concern… 

He felt his heart pick up, and it was suddenly hard to breathe… a weight on his chest. He felt dizzy… 

He found that he was sitting down heavily on the dusty floor of the Earth, his head swimming… his hands, both flesh and metal, clawing uselessly at the ground, trying to hang on, but it was no use, reality already receding again… 

His body tipped over into the dirt, and then he was no longer in the desert, but his throat was still so dry… thirsty… and he was asking for water… 

_Please… water_… 

The man gave it to him… brought him a cup, held it to his lips, and for a second he could see him: Coulson… looking at him, concerned, but then his face dissolved, sinking into shadow, and it was someone else looking down on him… 

Someone had strapped him down… he couldn’t move… there was a tube in his arm: his _left_ arm— still there, still whole… and some part of him wanted to panic, but he was being tugged down into a heavy, drugged sleep… 

The walls were dark… dirty… there was movement in the shadows, and he was afraid… 

He couldn’t move his head, couldn’t see what was happening… there was a pressure against his chest, something holding him there, and was it Coulson again, coming toward him out of the shadows? 

“I must apologize,” said the man, but he said it like he wasn’t sorry at all… 

He had an accent… and John knew that voice: recognized its colors in some deeply buried part of his mind, and he wanted to curl away from it and hide… 

“_You’ll forgive the restraints, Sergeant_…” 

_I’ll forgive nothing, you son of a bitch_… 

He couldn’t pull in a full breath… dizzy… it burned… and the man changed yet again… younger now… and he knew he was dreaming, because it was the guy from TV: Captain America… in this hell… in this dungeon, where he knew he’d died… 

_Steve_. His own mouth made the word; he felt it on his lips, the sound of it so familiar… instinctive… 

He was so sad, the man… the man called Steve… his face so full of emotion as he spoke to him: to _John_… 

“_I thought you were dead_…” 

There was a sharpness: a stinging slice of pain in his hand, and it brought him back, abruptly… 

He’d fallen over— No; he was already on the ground. Outside, in the desert, and his right hand was bleeding profusely— dripping red on the dusty earth… 

He was gripping something— clutching it, even as it sank into the soft flesh of his palm— a piece of broken glass… part of a shattered bottle … he must have grabbed onto it while he was… _away_… 

He’d lost time again— it was happening more often lately. Sometimes he remembered the images like movies playing back in his head, while other times— like now— they skittered away like monsters retreating from the light… 

He flung the shard aside and tried to sit up— squeezed his hand into a tight fist, trying to stanch the flow, instinctively, though it was nothing to be concerned about. A cut like that would heal within the hour: one of his so-called _gifts_… 

His phone chimed again, a reminder: _answer your text_… Okay. So he hadn’t been gone for too long. A few minutes, maybe. 

His face felt wet, and he reached up to touch it, to see if he was bleeding there too, but the dampness came away clear on his fingertips: had he been crying? 

_Get it together_… 

He opened the messaging app and read the words again— still there, waiting for his response: _Are you ok?_

He twisted his head around, looked behind him: could make out, in the distance— more than a quarter-mile away— her car still parked there on the shoulder of the highway, his bike still there behind it. 

He didn’t know how to answer the question. He wasn’t: he wasn’t okay. But she didn’t need to hear that. He didn’t need to burden her with more; his mere existence was already too much. 

He’d said her words, for God’s sake. Christ, that poor girl… 

His fingers were shaking, the skin of them dry and filthy from the ground, his hand smeared with dirty blood, and it took him a while, but he typed out his question, slowly, one letter at a time… 

_What were they_. He paused, swiped at the wetness on his cheeks— more of it leaking out, like a delayed response— and then clarified. _What did I say_. 

There was no answer. Maybe she didn’t want to repeat it. Confirm it, by writing it down. Not that she needed to, if she was telling the truth: they were already written down, somewhere on her skin. She’d have been reading them for most of her life… 

He made his own guess, remembering how odd it’d felt, at the time— like he’d been reciting something that’d always been there, in his memory, without his ever knowing it. He hadn’t realized, until now, that they’d been the first real words he’d spoken to her; he’d watched her for so long that it didn’t seem possible. 

_It was that stuff about my ma, wasn’t it_. 

A pause, and then her reply: 

_Yeah_. 

He read the single word that confirmed it, and then he shut his eyes, breathing through a wave of anguish, hating that he’d done this to her. He opened his eyes again and typed it out: 

_I’m sorry_. 

_I’m sorry you got stuck with this. With me_. 

_You deserve a real partner. Not_

He wasn’t sure how to finish that thought, though in his head he was hearing, ‘Not _me_.’ As though that one pronoun: that one little word— ‘_me_’— could sum up all the things that were completely, disastrously wrong for someone like her: someone who was vibrant and beautiful and full of promise… 

Someone who deserved everything. The best the Universe could conjure up. 

It made him angry. 

In the time it took him to feel all these things, she’d already responded: 

_So do you_. 

It made his eyes sting. It was a nice idea, but… 

It was the kind of thing his therapist would say— one of those things that sounded like what a person _should_ say, but had nothing to do with reality. His therapist was always saying things like that. It made it hard for him to trust her. 

Hearing it from Darcy was different. He still didn’t believe it, but… he believed that she _meant_ it, and it made something inside him want to reach out for her… to hang on, and— 

She texted him again: 

_Where is she? Or he? What happened? Did they reject you, when_

She didn’t finish the question, but he knew what she meant: When he hadn’t said their words back. She wanted to know if he’d been abandoned, just as she must think he would abandon her, in time, even if for some crazy reason she consented to trying this— to let him try to take care of her, even if it wasn’t driven, for him, by the compulsion of a bond. 

It wasn’t unheard of: people trying to outrun fate— and sometimes it worked, for a while. Until it didn’t. Happy endings were rare. 

_Don’t know_, he typed. _I don’t remember any of it_. 

_How?_ she replied. _How can you not remember something like that?_

And he realized then that she knew nothing about him— about his problems, his issues, the things that made others avoid him… aside from the obvious, like his hand… 

It took him a long time to type it all out: _Don’t remember anything. From before a year ago. My name. Even it ain’t real, cept for the John part. That’s all I have left. All I woke up with_. 

A quick reply: _Your name’s not real?_

_I don’t know_. 

A longer pause, and then: _What about your words?_

_Musta been on my arm. Can’t even remember that. How I lost it._

There was no reply, and then he added, _You can take off if you want. I ain’t gonna follow you._

He didn’t know how he could promise that, when it was all he wanted to do: to follow her, keep her in his sights, keep watch over her… It was why he now faced away from the road, why he’d walked so far away from his bike. To protect her. Even from himself… 

All was quiet for a time, and he waited for it— for the sound of the engine starting up, for her to finally leave. Only it never came: Instead, he heard the faraway thump of a car door slamming, and when he twisted his head around to look, he could see her making her way toward him— a tiny, slowly-moving figure in the distance — and he turned back around, already feeling his heart thump with the knowledge that she was coming. 

Five minutes later, he looked again, and he could see her better now— see that she was moving carefully, watching her own feet, picking through the rocks and the brush… maybe looking out for tarantulas and snakes, or the broken glass that littered the landscape like evidence of human disappointment. She was carrying the bottle of booze she’d bought in town. 

After another ten minutes, he could hear her footfalls, the rustle of her shoes against the dirt, and this time, he resisted the urge to look: she was close. Waited, until the noise stopped, and he could feel her there, just behind him and to his left. He could smell her shampoo, the soap she’d used in the shower… even the sour tang of booze on her breath. 

She sat down quietly, next to him, and after a moment of silence, she unscrewed the cap on her bottle. Took a long drink. He could smell it— the chemical whiff of the whiskey— as she offered the open bottle to him, but he just shook his head, declining. 

“Won’t do nothin’ for me,” he said, and then he cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound less gruff. His throat was very dry. “On second thought,” he said, holding his hand out, and when she offered the bottle again, he took it, and tipped the bottle up to take a drink. 

“What happened to your hand,” she said. 

“Cut it.” 

“It looks bad.” 

“It’ll be fine.” 

He could feel her eyes on him, and he looked away as he swallowed, wiped off his mouth on his shoulder, and then handed the bottle back. The whiskey tasted good. Like a poison he would welcome, if he could. He wished he could help her drink it: that he could join her… numb himself. She was well on her way: she’d already drunk almost a quarter of the bottle. 

“You oughta go easy on that,” he said. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped, but she just put the bottle down in the dirt, between her bent legs, and screwed the cap back on. “Sorry,” she said, a little softer, a moment later. 

“S’okay,” he said. 

“I just…” She let out a sigh, and it sounded so resigned— like she’d given up. “I wanna feel free to make my own shitty choices right now, you know?” 

He didn’t know what to say to that. Except to apologize again. 

“Sorry,” he said, hating the sound of his own voice. 

“It’s not your fault,” she said, and looked down, poked her finger at a tiny, grey-green desert plant. “S’nobody’s fault.” 

She was slurring her words a little, and he wondered if she’d had more to drink, earlier, at the bar. 

“You at least let me take you home?” he asked, and he finally dared to look at her. 

She was staring straight ahead, off to the same distant hills he’d been looking at, while he’d waited for her to walk over. There was something soothing about the dark, uniform wash of their color: too far away to see any of their details, but solid and certain and _there_, nevertheless. They’d been there longer than either of them, and would still be there long after they’d died… all of these fleeting, corporeal joys and sorrows a mere blip in time under the ever-watching eyes of their indigo slopes… 

She turned her face to look at him, straight on— the closest he’d ever seen her. Her cheeks were flushed. He could see that her eyes were bloodshot around the blue, the delicate skin that surrounded them puffy. It was obvious she’d been crying, and in spite of what she’d said earlier— absolving him— he felt responsible. 

“Don’t think it’d be safe for me,” she said, and at first he thought she meant that she was nervous about him: that he posed some kind threat to her; that he’d harm her somehow, and he found himself agreeing, in his mind— but then she clarified: “I’m pretty fucked up. Don’t think I could stay on the bike. I’d probably fall off.” 

“We’ll take your car,” he said, his eyes still locked on her face. “I’ll drive you home. See you get home safe.” 

“What about your bike?” 

“Don’t care.” He was staring at her: He couldn’t help it. She was so pretty, even with how sad, how weary she looked. He wondered what she’d look like in a moment of joy. Of ecstasy. It made his chest hurt, his stomach ache, but he couldn’t look away. 

He could see her eyes moving back and forth, studying his. Taking in his face. Maybe really looking at it, for the first time. 

“You’ll get in trouble,” she said. 

His eyes dropped to her lips, watching them form the words. They were bare, and dry, like his, and he longed to wet them, to feel how soft they’d be between his own… 

He remembered how he’d had the urge to kiss her, just from looking at her head-shot on his tablet, alone in his room. The feeling had been nothing, compared to this: to being right here, next to her. She was so close… 

He shut his eyes, cutting off the vision abruptly, feeling like a monster, for even thinking about it. She was vulnerable. Hurting. Probably drunk. Because of him. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, and he turned his face away from her again. 

When she didn’t answer, and the silence stretched on, he eventually turned his head to look at her again, and she was staring at him. She looked scared. 

“I can’t help it,” she whispered, and then she wrenched her gaze away, looked down at the bottle between her legs instead. “_Fuck_…” She unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle to take another long drink. When she’d recapped it, she let out a short, unhumored laugh. “I guess it’s already starting.” 

Maybe it should have made him feel good: to know there was really someone out there— one, particular Someone whom the Universe had deemed most fit to care for him. And she was right there, sitting next to him— beautiful and fierce and _real_… 

It didn’t. It didn’t make him feel good. He felt as though he’d been told he’d won a prize, only to learn that the prize was an unwilling slave, delivered to him in chains. 

“Let me take you home,” he repeated. “I’ll come back for the bike later.” 

* * *

Coulson’s voice sounded far away when it came through the earpiece: “Any change?” 

Agent May was watching from her secure position to the northeast, and she put down her field binoculars to take another drink from her water bottle. “Nope,” she said. “They’re just sitting there. Talking. Drinking. Well, she’s doing most of the drinking.” 

“Nothing nefarious about that,” came his answer. “Sounds kind of nice, actually.” 

She could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Yeah?” she said, picking up the binoculars again. “You wanna join me out here?” 

“Tempting,” he said, even though they were both joking. The desert valley was an unforgiving plain of bleakness— practically a wasteland. Not an ideal place for a picnic. 

“Opinion?” he asked, getting back to business. 

“If I had to guess,” she said, peering at them again, “I would say it’s safe to assume they said each other’s words. Whether they realize it or not. Pretty sure Lewis knows it, based on the amount of whiskey she’s throwing back. Brennan must’ve told her someone already said his… Poor woman thinks she’s a one-side.” 

“You’re making me feel bad,” said Coulson. His tone was lighthearted, as always, but she knew he was serious. 

“You _should_ feel bad,” she said, and there was a bite to it: she wasn’t kidding. 

May had been almost more upset than Coulson, about the decision to keep Barnes in the dark about his true identity. But as she was officially not even supposed to know the extent of it, she also— officially— lacked an admissible opinion on the matter. Now, finding out that they were also letting him believe he’d lost his soulmate, some time in his forgotten past… 

She and Coulson had been lucky— had had a perfect first meeting. Not everyone had such a smooth ride, and it was always painful to watch other couples go through missteps and misunderstandings on their road to answering fate’s call. 

This was even worse, because it involved deliberate interference. From people who were supposed to be on the side of _right_. 

“Can’t be helped,” said Coulson. “We couldn’t risk exposing our suspicions, either to him, or to whoever might be watching.” 

“Well, you _could_ have,” she countered. “It just would have meant keeping him confined— I mean, more overtly than he is now.” 

“Couldn’t do it,” said Coulson. “Not for this man. He deserves—” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “He doesn't deserve to be locked up. But does he deserve _this?_ He’s gotta think he’s gone off the deep end, if he’s feeling any kind of effect from the bond… I mean, obviously he is, with the way he’s been following her around like a lost puppy…” 

She took another drink of water. “Couldn’t you ask Rogers?” she said. “I mean, he deserves to know, in any case. You could find out what Barnes’s words were. We could interrogate Lewis, find out what she said…” 

“Yeah, and how do you propose we do that?” He assumed a put-on tone of mocking cheer: “Hey, Captain Rogers: turns out your best friend didn’t die after all; he was just left in a warehouse for an undetermined number of years, like a piece of junk. Oh, and we’re holding him hostage indefinitely, while we determine whether or not he’s a brainwashed assassin in the employ of your old pals, Hydra. And— oh yeah— we’re lying to him about his identity, and robbing him of a chance for happiness with his potential soulmate, because we’re lying to him about that, too.” 

“Didn’t say you had to tell him the whole story,” May grumbled. “Just some version of it.” She added, sourly, “Isn’t that our specialty?” 

“You’re makin’ me feel bad again,” he said. “And it’s not entirely up to me, anyway. But it may be time for a re-evaluation, in light of this new… development.” 

“You think?” 

The were both quiet for a few minutes, the line still open, and then May spoke up, abruptly. 

“They’re on the move. Looks like they’re heading back to the car.” 

“Keep your distance,” said Coulson. “Don’t interfere, unless you feel the girl’s in danger.” 

“Understood,” she said, and then added, a second later, “Don’t think she’s in danger of anything other than a nasty hangover, at this point.” 

* * *

She threw up on the way back to the car. 

She’d known she was in trouble as soon as they’d stood up, but she’d been trying to hide it: to pretend she was fine, even when the world was tilting as she stumbled her way behind him, her feet bumbling along on autopilot, her eyelids almost fluttering… yeah: she had too much, too fast… she was really fucked up. 

She wondered when she’d committed to getting a ride home from him. Well before he’d offered, that was for sure. And it hadn’t just been so she could get a head-start on the drinking. She didn’t like the implications. 

She was still carrying the bottle, like it was her security blanket, and she gave John a few extra brownie points for not trying to talk her out of her efforts to drink herself into a stupor. After that one comment, when she’d first sat down, he’d kept his mouth shut about it. 

She put on a brave face for about ten minutes, faking an “_It’s okay— I’ve got it_” demeanor each time he looked back, but all at once, it seemed to finally catch up with her, tipping her over the edge… 

She stopped, pulling in deep breaths, everything spinning, and she puffed out her lips on the next exhale, as if trying to expel the nausea, the waves of seasickness that were threatening to overwhelm her… She wanted to make a joke, but speaking wasn’t an option… 

He looked back again to check on her, and she must have looked even worse than she felt, because he abruptly reversed course: walked the few steps back to where she was now bent over, hands on her knees. 

“You okay?” he said. “Hey— Darcy: you all right?” His flesh hand was outstretched like he wanted to rest it on her shoulder, but he stopped short of actually touching her. 

“Don’t feel good,” she said, swallowing, her mouth filling with saliva… She dropped the bottle on the ground. “Think I’m gonna be sick.” 

As soon as she said it, it came up in a surge— no stopping it— and she spun around and heaved, bringing up most of what’d been left in her stomach, along with a lot of bile, and she gasped and blinked back the tears that instantly sprang to her eyes from the intensity of it, and then she gave over to it completely, letting loose two more times… 

“Sweetheart,” she heard him say, and the quiet tenderness in his voice made it harder not to cry. She heard the shuffle of his boot on the rocky ground as he took a tentative step toward her. 

She shot a hand out behind her, trying to tell him to stay back. To keep his distance. He complied, giving her what little privacy she could claim, out there in the desert: nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. For a moment, as she stood there, hunched over, waiting, she thought about how weird it was to get this shit-faced in broad daylight, the sun still high overhead— no cover of darkness to disguise the sheer ugliness of it… 

She stayed bent over for another minute, waiting for the next wave to come, but it never did. She spat a few times, trying to get rid of the sour taste in her mouth. 

She was ashamed. Knew she was making a spectacle of herself. Even so, the humiliation was mostly abstract at this point. She just wanted to get home. To be alone in her room. Lie down in her bed, pull the covers up, and surrender to oblivion. She could torture herself with shame tomorrow. 

“I need to go home,” she said, and she could hear how mumbled the words were, how slurred. “Need to lie down.” 

“We’re almost there,” he said. “Gimme your keys.” 

“Left ‘em in the car,” she said. She was still bent over, afraid to straighten up— afraid that even that much movement would bring on the spins again, and another round of violent heaving. 

“Almost there,” he said again. “Come on. I got you.” He bent down to pick up her bottle, and he held out his hand to her— the flesh one. 

She looked up at it, took a few more measured breaths— exhaling carefully, feeling out her limits— and then risked it, straightening up enough to reach out and take the offered hand. 

His skin was warm, his hand strong, and as much as she wanted to fight it— to refuse it— there was something undeniably comforting in his touch. She wondered if that was the soulbond threading its tendrils into her already, or if it was just… him. 

He was waiting— not tugging on her, not telling her to get a move on— and she took a few more breaths, squeezed his hand, and then used it to pull herself toward him as she forced her legs to start moving again. She could see the car, through the heavy droop of her eyes… close now: just a couple more minutes and she could sit down. Rest. Pass out. 

She realized, even in her haze, as she wobbled her way along, grasping his hand like a lifeline, that in the course of a single day she’d gone from being creeped out by his watching her from the other side of crowded room, to completely trusting him with shepherding her soon-to-be-unconscious body. It was unnerving, not having any say over that much of a global shift. It was happening so fast… 

He held onto her hand until they made it back to the road, and then he popped open the passenger-side door for her; stood by, watching, while she slid her flagging, useless body into the seat. Once she got her legs all the way in and leaned back, exhaling in relief, he shut the door. She could hear his boots crunching on the gravel as he went back to his bike, and then a moment later he was getting in on the driver’s side. He sat down and handed a bottle of water to her, and then tossed the whiskey bottle into the back, behind his own seat. 

She took the water bottle, but didn’t try to drink any— just grasped it, like a buoy, held in her lap, her eyes getting heavy, everything spinning a little… 

He looked over at her and said, “Buckle up,” while he fished the keys out of the cup holder, and she stayed conscious just long enough to comply, her movements slow but automatic, the click of the buckle sliding home the last thing she remembered before she succumbed to the pull of a heavy, intoxicated sleep. 

* * *

She was vaguely aware of throwing up again, this time into a toilet. She must have made it home. She came to again, this time lying on her side, in a bed, and someone put a cup of cold water in her hand, helped her sit up to drink some of it. 

“Thanks, Janey,” she murmured, and she heard a voice say, “I’ll be back soon,” and it wasn’t Jane: of course not; how could it be? It was a deep male voice, and the sound of it was so soothing that she wanted to sink herself inside of it, let it wrap around her like a blanket. Something about it made her feel so profoundly safe, that she gratefully succumbed to the comfort of its memory as she floated back into unconsciousness. 

The next time she woke up, she was slightly more lucid. Ferociously thirsty. She felt too good: hurting, but not hungover yet— she was probably still drunk. 

She was lying on her stomach on a narrow mattress, low to the ground, her face turned toward a wall with peeling paint, all the sheets kicked down to her feet, and she immediately knew she wasn’t in her own room. 

For a moment she panicked, wondering if she’d slept with him. But she was alone in the bed— all of her clothes still on, except for her shoes. When she turned her head the other way and could see the rest of the room, he was there: reclined in a simple wooden chair in front of a writing desk. There was a small desk lamp on, and in the low light she could see his head lolling to the side, his eyes shut. He was breathing quietly. Asleep. 

He was still in his daytime clothes, though he’d removed his hoodie, leaving behind a sleeveless, ribbed undershirt that exposed his prosthesis. She could see how the natural flesh of his left shoulder ended just above his armpit, and there was some kind of short, metal rod sticking out of its center— maybe attached to the bone— that in turn connected to the flesh-colored artificial limb that he hadn’t bothered to remove. His pants were unbuttoned, and he’d taken off his boots and socks. His face was sweaty, and he needed a shave. 

Even as unkempt as he was, and as wretched as she felt, she found herself moving her eyes over him with an involuntary sort of approval: he looked good. Really good. And then it was like a vision: the urge to climb up into his lap, to straddle him and touch his face, smooth his sweaty hair back from his brow… to comfort him… and she could almost hear herself sighing in the vision— saying, “_Baby_,” as she laid her hands on him… 

She knew it was just the soulbond, working its voodoo on her. Well, mostly. The man was objectively handsome, and the more she saw of his body, the more she realized he was hiding a whole lot of tasty underneath his oversized hoodies and baggy shirts. He was beautiful. 

As if he could feel the weight of her gaze, his eyes began to flutter open, his dark eyelashes lifting, and then he was staring back at her from across the room, his eyes looking darker than their natural blue in the low light. 

“You okay?” he said, and she blinked, unsure how to answer. She noticed the bottle of whiskey, sitting on the desk; it was over half-empty. 

“I drink all that?” she croaked. Her throat was parched, as was the inside of her mouth. She tried to swallow; she felt like something had died on her tongue. 

“Most of it,” he answered, still staring at her. 

“No wonder I feel so terrific,” she said. She tried to roll a little, onto her side, and as she did, a wave of his scent was released from the sheets— something simultaneously spicy and sweaty— and it went straight to her core, as she breathed it in. She felt like she was tasting him, and for a moment she was lost inside of it… wanted to burrow into it and never come out… 

“I take it we’re in your room,” she said, and then she moaned a little as a wave of seasickness passed over her. She was definitely still fucked up. “God, I’m thirsty.” She was inhaling shallowly, trying not to breathe through her nose. “I think I’m still drunk.” 

He was pushing up out of the chair. “M’sorry,” he said. “I didn’t— I wasn’t sure where to take you; couldn’t look up your room number or nothin’. I woulda called your friends, or— I didn’t know if you’d want them to see you with me, or… I just— I needed to make sure you were okay.” 

Her eyes followed him as he leaned over near the side of the bed, picked up a water cup that’d been sitting there on the floor. He disappeared through a doorway just past the foot of the bed— it must have led to a bathroom, because she could hear him running water. He returned in a minute with the cup, and crouched down by the bed to offer it to her. 

“Thanks,” she said, sitting up with difficulty to accept the cup. She took a tiny sip of water, testing her body’s response to the input. She knew she must look horrible, and probably stank, too, but he didn’t seem to care— just waited, there by the bed, watching her. When he saw that she was able to drink some of the water, he returned to his chair, sitting in it heavily. 

Since her stomach hadn’t immediately rejected the water, she risked another small sip and then said, “What time is it?” And then, “Oh, fuck— the car…” 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I checked it in for you. You’re good.” 

“I don’t remember,” she said. “Fuck, did I make a complete fool of myself? I didn’t sing, did I?” 

“No,” he said, and there was the tiny hint of a smile on his face at her question. It looked good on him. Just as quickly, it vanished. “It was… sort of the other direction. You were… you weren’t too happy.” 

Right. She’d probably been stumbling and ugly-crying. Terrific. 

“What about your bike?” she said, remembering it now— how he’d left it behind, so he could drive her home. She took another small drink of water and then leaned over the edge of the bed, reaching to carefully set the cup down on the floor. 

“I already got it,” he said. “When you were sleepin’.” 

“What? Jeez, how long have I been out?” She felt a fresh wave of nausea, and she lay back down on her side again, willing it to pass. Begged her body to accept the water, not force it up again. 

“Not too long,” he said. “Few hours, at most. It’s… a little after eight now. At night. I uh… I plugged in your phone for you. You were gettin’ a lot of messages…” 

“Shit,” she said, trying to sit up again, but a wave of dizziness stopped her. “Could you— my phone…” 

He stood up, unplugged it from the charger on the desk, and walked it over to her, and then returned to his chair. 

She rolled onto her side again, keeping her movements slow, and turned the phone on, almost afraid to look. 

_Fuck_. There was a barrage of missed texts and calls, most of them from Jane, some from Kim and Andy. They were successively more worried, and the most recent one from Jane was bordering on frantic. 

She took the time to send each of them a very brief text, to the tune of ‘_Sorry; I’m fine, not dead; call u later_,’ and then she dropped the phone to the mattress beside herself, completely worn out from just that small amount of concentration. 

“Wait,” she said, now that she’d had time to think about it, “You walked twenty miles in…” She stopped, not finishing the sentence: the talking was making it worse— making her more queasy. 

“Jogged, most the way,” he said. “You want me to take you to your room? Or get you something to eat?” 

“God, no,” she said, rolling over again, and she was once again treated to a heady waft of his scent drifting out of the sheets. It was comforting: like a soothing touch, calming her body, and this time she gave into the urge to let it envelop her— pulled the sheets back up over her body, and curled up inside of them, feeling like she was wrapped up his arms. She wanted to stay there forever. 

“Don’t even talk about food,” she moaned. “I can’t— don’t wanna move…” Her voice trailed off. She was getting sleepy again, her eyes getting heavy, and she inhaled deeply, pulling in another dose of his smell. “I stole your bed,” she said, hoping he’d hear it as the apology she meant it to be… 

“S’okay,” she heard him say, as her eyes fell shut. “Just rest.” 

* * *

There was some kind of horrible noise— it woke her up out of a deep, drugged sleep— and then she heard him quietly say, “Hello,” and she realized it’d just been his phone ringing: a typical ringtone, but with her hangover, it’d sounded like the end of the world… 

Her eyes were still shut, but she could hear him talking to whoever had called him: 

“Shit, I’m sorry; I musta overslept. I can be there in… twenty minutes? Okay. Okay.” 

She heard him rise from his chair, and then the rustle of his pants as he walked past her, to the bathroom, pulling the door shut. A moment later, there was a muffled squeaking and then the sound of a shower coming on. 

She cracked her eyes open. Felt around in the sheets for her phone; she finally found it pushed under the one pillow on the bed. Woke it up and checked the time: 7:42. In the _morning_. She’d slept for almost twelve hours. It was inconceivable, but at least she seemed to have slept off the worst of her hangover— she no longer felt the entire Earth spinning when she pushed herself up a bit in the bed. She felt like she could eat an entire pizza. Or two. 

She took the ten seconds to quickly thumb out a text to her supervisor— _Still sick. Sorry_— and then read the messages from her friends, all of them relieved, Jane telling her to call later. She clicked the phone off and flipped it face-down on the bed. 

She looked over at the chair: his prosthetic arm was lying on it, looking odd there, in its disconnected state. There was a paperback book on the desk, bent open, face down. She wondered if he’d been lying to the person on the phone, about oversleeping. 

The shower shut off, and a minute later he emerged from the bathroom, shirtless, holding a towel around the rest of his naked body. His hair was dripping. She averted her eyes. “Sorry.” 

“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re awake.” 

“Yeah,” she said, keeping her head turned away. She could hear him opening a closet door, pulling open a drawer. The sound of clothes rustling, pulling up a zipper. “Can’t believe how long I slept,” she said. “I’ll, uh… I’ll get out of your hair.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and she heard him walk by the bed, so she opened her eyes again. He’d put on pants and a fresh undershirt, and she could see his shoulder amputation better now: the little metal rod sticking out of the stump looked like something you’d see in a set of specialty bits for an electric screwdriver. He grabbed a round, metallic puck—about the size of medicine-bottle cap— off the desk, and snapped it onto the rod, and then picked up the prosthetic arm and stuck it onto the cap, flipping a lever to lock it in place. 

He glanced over to her, and she averted her eyes again, not wanting him to think she was staring, even though she had been… 

“I gotta go,” he said, as he pulled on one of his oversized hoodies, hiding the arm, and then zipped it up. “I’m late for an appointment.” 

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry if, um… you know, if my being here messed up your morning.” 

“No,” he said, as he leaned over and grabbed his phone, shoved it into his front pants-pocket. “Wasn’t lookin’ forward to this, uh… this particular appointment, anyways. Was kinda hopin’ she wouldn’t call. Be forced to reschedule or somethin’.” He laughed: a short, self-deprecating sound. “Don’t know why the fuck I answered…” 

He was just standing there, like he was reluctant to leave her, and he said, “You can stay as long as you want— use the shower, whatever— but… uh… just so you know, Peck is gonna be down here in…” He pulled out his phone again, looked at the time. “Bout five or ten minutes.” 

She blinked at him for a second, not understanding, until she realized why he was telling her that: maybe she didn’t want the entire base to know she’d been seen leaving his room in the morning hours, all disheveled and… 

“I don’t care what the fuck that asshole thinks,” she said. “But I could do without having to talk to him again…” 

He was still lingering— maybe considering staying, based on her comment— so she said, “Just go. I’ll be fine; really.” 

He put his phone back in his pocket. “Let me know, okay? Let me know you got back to your room all right.” 

“Yeah,” she said. “Of course. And, um…. thanks again. For everything.” 

It was awkward now. She’d gotten completely shit-faced drunk and slept in his bed. He may or may not have been watching her sleep, for some of it. And he was her soulmate. In his own way, he’d taken care of her, even though there’d been no reason for him to do so. What was the appropriate way to say goodbye? 

“Go,” she said again. “I’ll text you later. Promise.” 

That seemed to do it. His eyes softened and he nodded, and then he turned and left, pulling the door shut behind him. 

She felt bad. She had no intention of talking to him later. She needed to get the fuck out of there, and stay as far away from him as possible. 

It wasn’t fair. He seemed like a nice guy, in spite of his odd behavior. And boy howdy, was he ever her type. This just couldn’t… it couldn’t go anywhere— not in a way she’d feel comfortable with. 

As soon as he’d gone, she sat up a little more and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, took a moment to look around the room. It was really small. Practically a closet. She wondered why they had him down here, like some kind of troll under the bridge, instead of in the residential wing like everyone else. Maybe he’d chosen this. Maybe he liked the isolation. 

She got out of the bed slowly— her legs felt creaky, weak. Shuffled into the little bathroom. It was still humid inside, from his shower, and she could smell the remains of that spicy note that was in his sheets. 

The mirror was a little fogged up; on a whim, she traced a little message onto it with her index finger: _Thanks, cowboy. Sorry_. She made a little heart underneath it. Something in her own heart cracked a little as she looked at it— because there it was: her goodbye. She resisted the urge to second-guess it: to wipe it away. 

She used the toilet and washed her hands, splashed a little bit of cold water on her face, but didn’t take him up on the offer to use the shower. She just wanted to get out of there, get back to her own room, and not look back. Call Jane. Figure out what was next, how to get out of this place. She needed to talk to her supervisor, give notice… 

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing up her sneakers, when her eyes came to rest on a dirty undershirt— probably the one he’d slept in— lying half-draped over the edge of a small green hamper by his closet. She finished with her shoes, stood up, grabbed her phone and found her wristlet on his desk, and then, even as a part of her said, _Don’t do it_, she walked over to the hamper and grabbed the undershirt, and then rapidly made her exit, feeling like she’d just stolen some kind of valuable artifact. 

She made her way quickly through his little workshop and then out to the larger, main room, and was heading toward the exit when she felt a big hand clasp onto her bicep, stopping her and spinning her around, and she shrieked from the shock of it, instinctively trying to pull away… 

It was Peck, in his full-body coveralls. “What you sneakin’ around in here for, girlie.” He shook her a little, his grip on her unyielding. 

She tried to wrench herself free, and a fresh wave of nausea ripped through her like a knife… 

“Let me go.” 

He was smirking at her now: noticing her hair, her clothes— her general state of dishevelment. She probably smelled like a bar. “You shack up with Brennan?” He finally dropped her arm and stepped back. “Didn’t know the asshole had it in him.” 

“Fuck you,” she said, and she could hear him snickering as she hurried away, still clutching the undershirt, swallowing down the bile that was rising in her throat. She felt like she needed to throw up again. 

She made it to the elevator, the doors opening almost immediately after she pressed the call button, and she stepped in quickly and jabbed the button for her floor, still feeling sick. The doors finally shut, sealing her in, and she stepped back, realized she was shaking a little from the encounter with Peck. 

Halfway to her floor, she looked down at the undershirt in her hand— it was still slightly damp, from his sweat— and she pulled it up to her face and held it there as she breathed it in, the smell of his body flooding her senses, spreading out like a river of warmth all over her body, soothing her like she’d just taken a hit of something good… something tailor-made for Darcy Lewis. 

And just like that, the nausea was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	11. Chapter 11

“Sorry I’m late,” said the doctor, as she slid into the seat across from Coulson. The large teleconference screen was already on, centered on the wall above the other end of the conference table, Jasper Sitwell’s face filling most of it. 

“Not a problem,” said Coulson. “Jasper? Not sure if you and Dr. Oberly— ” 

The doctor spoke up, before Sitwell could answer. “I believe we met once, in Washington,” she said, turning to face the screen. “At the Senator’s ball? It would have been a few years ago…” 

“That’s right,” said Sitwell, nodding. “Nice to see you again, Doctor.” 

“Please, call me Denise.” 

“So,” said Sitwell. “You want to fill me in on the situation over there? What’s so urgent?” 

Coulson had been tapping his finger on the table, and he stopped, flattening his hand on the polished wood. “I think we might have a problem with Brennan. Or at least, a situation that may affect how we move forward from here.” 

“I thought he was stabilizing,” said Sitwell. “Adjusting well to the setup over there.” 

“He was,” said Coulson, and he swiveled a bit toward Dr. Oberly. “He’s stayed pretty much under the radar for the better part of a year. No major issues; no incidents. Until this week.” 

“All right,” said Sitwell. “What do we got?” 

“We think…” Coulson glanced to Oberly again. “I have reason to believe that he may have triggered a soulmark in a staff member here, and he himself may have been triggered earlier… I don’t know if he’s brought it up in session…” 

“He has not,” said Oberly, her brow furrowed. “Which I find troubling, if it’s true.” She leaned forward a bit. “What evidence do you have that—” 

“The incident in the gymnasium,” said Coulson, and Oberly nodded, indicating that she was aware of it. “Agent May was present, and after observing his behavior, both during and afterward, in her office, she was motivated to take a look at his activities during the prior two weeks. After reviewing the available surveillance footage, she determined that he’d been… well, keeping tabs on another staff member. A woman named Darcy Lewis.” 

“When you say ‘_keeping tabs_’,” said Oberly. 

“He was following her,” said Coulson. “Agent May characterized it as stalking, but I don’t know if I’d take it that far. He kept his distance, never attempted to intimidate or otherwise harass her…” 

“She didn’t report it?” asked Oberly. “Was she aware of what he was doing?” 

“The footage seems to suggest that she was,” said Coulson. “Aware of it. And no; she never reported it.” 

“Okay,” said Oberly. “You understand that there are certain confidentiality issues here, but I can say without any violation thereof, that he hasn’t mentioned any of this in session. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Other than, of course, the basic facts of the situation in the gymnasium, which we discussed this morning. In fact, that’s why I was late. He almost missed his appointment, so we went over time a bit. I mention it, because he’s never done that before. Missed an appointment, I mean.” 

“What’s this gymnasium thing you keep mentioning,” said Sitwell. 

“He got into a fight yesterday,” said Coulson. “Attacked another man— put him in a dangerous pin; had to be talked down by Agent May.” 

“What precipitated it?” said Sitwell. 

“Apparently the guy was being, uh… _crude_. To Miss Lewis.” 

“Huh,” said Sitwell. “And he’d had no direct contact with her before then? Hadn’t spoken to her?” 

“Well, that’s the thing,” said Coulson. “It’s unclear. There was one instance, when she may have said something to him earlier— down in the maintenance department, where he works. A little over a week ago. She was delivering some items to him, for repair. Unfortunately, she was facing away from the available cameras, so we can’t even confirm whether she spoke to him, much less what was said.” 

“There’s no audio?” 

“Not for that location, no.” 

Sitwell laughed a little. “Guess I know where to have all my secret meetings, next time I’m over there…” 

Coulson allowed a smile, Oberly joining him for the brief moment of humor. 

“So what’s the issue here?” said Sitwell, getting back to it. “You think they said each other’s words?” 

“Seems likely,” said Coulson. “They spent some time together, off-base, which is highly unusual for him. I assigned Agent May to surveil, and in her opinion, they were behaving in a manner suggestive of… one or both of them having been triggered…” 

“Shit,” said Sitwell, and then glanced to Oberly. “Pardon my language.” He looked back to Coulson. “So. Who else knows about this?” 

“Just the three of us, as far as I know. And Agent May, tangentially.” 

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s keep it that way. Doctor Oberly, have you noticed any other changes in his behavior?” 

“I have,” she said. “It makes more sense now that I know what may be going on, but… he’s also been more guarded. I can tell he’s keeping things from me, although he has opened up recently, about some disturbing dreams. He called for an extra session about a week go, to discuss it. But we’ve had a good rapport thus far, so it comes as a surprise to me that he would be so utterly reticent about his interest in this woman… even if— well… even if he didn’t grasp its significance.” 

“Except that he doesn’t believe—” began Sitwell, and then he looked to Coulson. 

“Speak freely,” said Coulson. “Doctor Oberly was fully briefed; she needed the context, in order to provide him the best support…” 

“And you’re right,” said Oberly, nodding, acknowledging what Sitwell had started to say. “He likely doesn’t believe it’s a possibility: that this… Lewis… could be his soulmate. He’d fully accepted the explanation— a prior triggering, at some time in his past— for his enhancements. Internalized it.” 

“But if Lewis— if she’s really his soulmate,” said Sitwell, “Won’t he be experiencing evidence to contradict all of that?” 

“I believe he already is, to some extent,” said Coulson, “though his enhancements may be masking the physical symptoms somewhat.” He shook his head. “But he’s not stupid. Far from it. If he continues to feel this pull to her… even just on an emotional level… with no logical explanation for it…” 

Oberly chimed in: “I agree. If what you’re saying is true, it’s only a matter of time before he begins to question the story he’s been told. He’s very intelligent. Naturally apprehensive… suspicious. He’s had no reason to doubt the story before now, but…” 

“So what do we do?” said Sitwell. 

Coulson took a deep breath and said it. “In my opinion? I think it’s time we come clean. Tell him who he really is. Share our concerns. Give him a real seat at the table, concerning his own future— even if there’s a possibility he’s been compromised. He has a right to know, even if it means greater restrictions on his freedom, in the short run.” 

Sitwell looked to Oberly: “Doctor?” 

She took a moment before replying, seemed to choose her words carefully. “I think it could be dangerous to upend his world so completely at this time. A more gradual—” 

“We may not have the luxury of time,” said Coulson. “If he’s a sleeper, this may be our only chance to try to control the situation. Bring him in on it and give him a chance to work with us, rather than against us. If he begins to suspect that we’ve been lying to him, and he destabilizes further…” 

“It could prompt whoever’s biding their time— if there is, in fact, an outside interest— to make a move sooner rather than later,” finished Sitwell. 

“I don’t like it,” said Oberly. “I recommend we move slowly. Carefully. Avoid agitating him.” 

Sitwell inclined his head. “Noted. And I don’t entirely disagree, but… At any rate, I’ll need to consult up top before we make any decisions. Are you keeping an eye on him?” 

“I’ve got May on it,” said Coulson. 

“What about the girl? This… Lewis.” 

Coulson shook his head. “She came out of New Mexico, with Selvig. Used to work for Dr. Foster. Other than that… she’s in accounting now. Clean record. No red flags. We’re not watching her, specifically… yet. Although…” 

“Although?” 

“You mentioned an uptick in nightmares,” he said, as he shifted to address the doctor. 

“Yes.” 

“What if that’s not a coincidence? What if— assuming that the girl did say his words, that day down in the—” He stopped, his eyes darting back and forth at nothing, as though reading an invisible screen in front of him. 

“What is it,” said Sitwell. 

“That was the same day the news broke on Rogers,” he said, and then he looked up at Sitwell again. “He was watching the news that day, when Lewis approached him… he looked like he was in a daze… definitely confused…” 

“You think he was remembering something?” 

“Impossible to say, but… if something in him was being shaken loose by the news footage… and then in comes Lewis, says his words…” 

“Hypothetically,” said the doctor. 

“And then he starts having vivid dreams… nightmares…” He looked at the doctor. “Do you think they were random images? Or was he remembering events from his past?” 

She shifted in her seat. “I’m not really at liberty to discuss the details of…” 

“Okay,” said Coulson. “But hypothetically… what if she triggered something that’s… helping him remember? A bond-gift like that, something restorative— combined with a barrage of Steve Rogers imagery…” 

“I think we need to move on this,” said Sitwell. “At least come up with a plan.” 

“Agreed,” said Coulson. 

“Doctor?” said Sitwell, raising his eyebrows at the woman. “Thank you for your time. If you would give me a minute alone with Phil… We’ll, uh… keep you informed.” 

“Of course,” she said, smiling politely. She got up, pushed in her chair, and left the boardroom, shutting the door on her way out. 

“What do you think?” said Sitwell, leaning closer to the camera on his side, as soon as they were alone. 

“I understand her position, but I think it’s optimistic,” said Coulson. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. How soon can you get a decision?” 

“I’ll make it a top priority,” said Sitwell, “but I wouldn’t expect anything before the week is out. But for the record? I’m on your side on this one. Barnes should know who he is.” 

* * *

John put down the infrared goggles he was running a diagnostic on, and picked up his phone again. Still nothing: no word from Darcy. He’d returned from his appointment to find her gone, which hadn’t been a surprise, but he’d believed her when she’d promised to text him. 

He was worried. She’d probably just gone straight back to bed, once she’d reached her room, but assumptions weren’t enough— he needed to know. 

He’d been resisting the urge to text her for over an hour. Didn’t want to bother her— wake her, if she was still resting. He put the phone back down on the workbench. Resolved to wait another hour. Okay, thirty minutes. Twenty. Twenty minutes. He glanced down at the phone again. Opened the clock app and set a timer. Fifteen minutes. He’d wait fifteen minutes, and then… reassess. 

He pressed the button to start the timer, and as it counted down the seconds, he tried to return his focus to the goggles. But all he could see was her face. 

“Hey Brennan.” It was Peck. 

John had been avoiding him, since he’d gotten back. He wasn’t in the mood. Now the man was standing in his doorway, leaning on the jamb, wiping his hands on his rag, like always. 

“What is it,” he said, reluctantly acknowledging the guy. “You got something extra for me?” He glanced down at the phone, the timer still running. Thirteen more minutes to go. 

“Nah. Just wanted to say, I saw your girlfriend this morning. She was ah… lookin’ pretty worn out.” 

“What.” It was something dangerous he was feeling, as he looked up at the man. 

Peck was smirking at him, his tongue swiping back and forth across his lower lip. “Yeah,” he said. “She was sneakin’ her way outa here, like she had herself a juicy little secret. I gotta say, I’m impressed. Didn’t think you—” 

John was up— his chair falling back, a socket wrench in his hand, before he could even think about what he was doing. He could feel blood pumping in his head. 

“Shit, man,” said Peck, laughing a little as he stepped back. “Take it easy. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Was a compliment. Pretty little piece of ass like that—” 

“Get the _fuck_ out of here,” said John, keeping his eyes down, his flesh hand flexing around the handle of the wrench. He was afraid if he looked at the guy, he was gonna jump on him— swing the wrench, and… He shut his eyes and started his count… _inhale for five… hold for five… exhale_… 

“Jesus Christ,” said Peck, and John could hear him shuffling away, his voice receding back into the main workshop. “Take a fuckin’ aspirin or somethin’…” 

* * *

He did three more sequences of the measured breathing, and he’d relaxed enough by the end of the third exhale to release his grip on the wrench, and he opened his eyes and set it down on the workbench. His hand hovered over it for a few seconds, and he watched it— could see his fingers shaking. He felt like all of his cells were vibrating. 

He leaned over and picked up the chair, making his moves slow. Deliberate. Straightened the chair. Sat down. Looked at the timer: ten-and-a-half minutes to go. He picked up the goggles and got back to work. 

* * *

After the seventh time resetting the timer— fifteen minutes, each time— he’d completed his repair on the goggles, and bagged them for redelivery to the correct department. Logged it. Checked the list of orders to see what was next. Checked the time: almost lunch. Checked his messages again: nothing. 

It was worse than an itch, this need to know. It was like a hunger— a demand his body was imposing on him, overriding whatever rational thoughts he was having, and it was starting to piss him off that he was so helpless to it. 

He wondered if he was having withdrawal symptoms. He’d stopped taking the medication. They hadn’t discussed it, he and the therapist. He’d simply decided. It was his body. He’d run his own diagnostic, just like a piece of equipment he was working on. He was dimly aware that his analogy was flawed, but he didn’t give a shit. 

He checked messages again. Nothing new in the last twenty seconds. 

He pulled off his one work glove, dropped it on his bench, and headed out to get his lunch. He didn’t bother telling Peck. 

* * *

Just before dinnertime, he finally broke down and sent the text, sitting at the little desk in his room. Figured she’d be awake by now, even if she’d spent the day sleeping off the rest of her hangover. 

_You get back all right?_

He pressed _Send_, and then tried to steel his resolve to be patient, flipping the phone over so he couldn’t look at the screen. He opened his paperback book and stared at the words on the page, his eyes tracking their way through the same paragraph three times before he closed the book again. Pushed it aside. He dropped his hand to his lap. Stared at nothing. Waited. 

This time, when he slipped sideways into a memory— because he was starting to realize that’s what they were, even if there were people in them who shouldn’t be there, like Captain America— he didn’t fight it. Let it happen… let himself dissolve… 

He was trying to figure out who Captain America was supposed to represent. The guy was showing up with increasing frequency— like he was John’s guardian angel, or something. John figured it was a pretty good sign that he was losing his marbles, which was why he hadn’t mentioned it in session that morning. 

He looked funny this time, though. Small. Like a little kid. But his voice was deep, like a man’s. John was saying something to him. Trying to buck him up. Put his hand on his skinny little shoulder. The kid-man smiled at him, something half-assed about it. John could relate to that. He liked this kid. 

The loud chime of an incoming text pulled him back, and he sucked up a breath, like he was coming up for air after being underwater. He flipped his phone over and read the reply, straight off the home screen, before it timed out: 

_Yeah. Thanks for everything_. 

That was it. He waited, but nothing else came through. It sounded final. And what had he expected, anyway? There was nothing between them. Nothing she wanted, at any rate. 

It made him feel even more restless, not less. Jittery. Like he needed to go find her room, bang on her door. See what she was doing, if there was anything else she needed. He felt an odd sense of responsibility for her. 

He looked over at his bed: the sheets were still rumpled up from where she’d been tangled up in them, that morning. Feeling like the worst kind of creep, even though it was his own goddammed bed, he went over and lay down in the messed-up sheets, settling onto his side. 

He could feel her there— the smell of her embedded in the fibers, the flavor of it released anew, every time he moved. That citrusy shampoo he’d noticed in the desert, and the sourness of her hangover, and something else… something slightly salty, that made something stir inside him… a female scent he’d forgotten he even knew about, and he was already getting hard… 

He popped the button on his pants and unzipped his fly and pushed down his boxers just enough to take himself in hand, and he quickly found a rhythm, his breath coming heavy, and he hated himself for doing it, but he couldn’t stop— couldn’t stop thinking of her while he did it— of her pretty face, her lips, the way they’d parted in her sleep, and he hadn’t felt like a pervert when he’d watched her then, but he felt like one now: watching her in his memory as he stroked his own body. 

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. It felt too good— like the only thing that was gonna soothe him, if he couldn’t see her— and when he finally tensed up and then released, burying his face into the pillow to muffle his own whimper, he felt like he’d crossed some terrible line. 

He lay there panting for a few more minutes, his hand still loosely wrapped around his softening dick, his fingers slimy from his own spend, and he’d never felt more disgusting. 

He finally sat up, wiped his hands on the sheets, and pushed his pants and boxers off the rest of the way. In a fit of anger, he stripped the bed, balling up the sheets— shoved them into the hamper by his closet. He pulled off his shirt and removed his prosthesis, tossing it onto the bare mattress, went into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. 

He got into it cold, and then let it heat up to scalding… stood in the hot water for a long time, until he was practically gasping from the steam, swaying from it. When he finally turned off the water and stepped out, he just stood, dripping, as he stared at the message that was waiting for him on his mirror— invisible before, but revealed now by the steam: 

_Thanks, cowboy. Sorry_. 

There was a little heart drawn beneath the words. 

He stepped closer, watched as his own hand reached out, and then his index finger was slowly tracing the letters, following the path that her finger had taken on the glass. 

He felt like crying. 

After another minute of staring at it, his heart pounding, eyes stinging, he pressed his palm to the glass and wiped it clean. 

* * *

“What are you doing here?” 

Darcy was whispering, looking around furtively, like he’d embarrassed her. 

It’d been four days. Four days since she’d texted him, and he’d jacked off to her memory in his bed. He’d tried to avoid her. Tried to stay away. He’d failed. 

She was in his head. He’d sought her out. Had to see her. He could come up with some excuse, something normal-sounding. Maybe he could buy her some lunch, or… 

When she’d seen him there, his body half-hidden around the corner by the entrance to the office-space she worked in, she’d pushed back her chair immediately, coming right for him, and he was so relieved to see her that he didn’t even care how upset she looked. 

She’d grabbed him by the sleeve of his hoodie and pulled him with her around the corner into a cul-de-sac that had a copy machine and a large recycling bin at the end of it, giving them some measure of privacy. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just— I had to see you.” There was no point lying about it. 

“Why?” 

She wouldn’t look at him. She looked to the side, at her own fingernails, down at her feet: anywhere but at him. 

His own eyes never left her face. 

“I don’t know,” he said. 

She shook her head, still looking down. “You’re making it worse. “Don’t— don’t make it harder for me than it already is.” 

She finally looked up at him, and he could hear her suck in a breath, like it was painful for her to see his face. 

She looked sick, like she had a fever. Her cheeks were flushed red and her eyes were tired. He wanted to kiss her. Wanted to pick her up and hold her and help make it better. He’d said her words. He was supposed to take care of her. 

“Look, I’m sorry,” she said, looking down again. “This’ll all be over soon. I’m putting in for a transfer, but it’s gonna be a few weeks, at least. So we just— I just gotta deal with this on my own, until I can get away from here. And then we can both move on from this.” 

She reached out then, and her little hand wrapped around the fingers of his right hand, surprising him… 

She squeezed his hand, once, took in a shuddering breath, and then released him. 

“Just— forget you ever met me, okay?” 

She was backing away, blinking at him, and then she turned on her heel and practically ran, leaving him there by the copy machine, his hand still tingling from her touch, even as his chest began to flood with panic. 

* * *

“I can’t do this,” she said. She was pacing, phone to her ear, her voice too loud in the harsh acoustics of the ladies’ bathroom. “I can’t fucking do this.” 

“Yes you can,” said Jane, her voice sounding too far away on the other end of the line. “How many days has it been?” 

“Since…” 

“Since the last time you touched him.” 

“I just touched him two minutes ago,” she said. “He came to my department. He was like, ‘_I had to see you_…’” 

“What, really?” There was a pause, and then Jane said, “Are you a hundred percent sure you didn’t say his words?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “I already told you— he’s got, like, powers or something. Super strength. Can’t get drunk. He doesn’t remember getting triggered, but it already happened, before he even met me.” 

“So, what— the guy’s just got a good-old-fashioned crush on you or something?” 

“Fuck if I know,” she said. “Either that or he’s just… crazy.” 

“I don’t know,” said Jane. “Something seems off to me.” There was a pause, and then she said, “Maybe he’s a double.” 

Darcy made a scoffing sound: Jane and her theories. “You know as well as I do that there hasn’t been a single documented case of—” 

“Hey,” said Jane, cutting her off. “My soulmate is a real-live alien from outer space, so it’s not like your boyfriend being a double would be the weirdest thing to ever happen to one of us…” 

“Well, whatever it is, it’s for sure not a ride-off-into-the-sunset _soulmates_ thing, because if it were, I would have been fucking him nonstop, starting four days ago.” 

Another woman had come into the bathroom right at the tail end of that little speech, and gave her a weird look. Darcy just raised her eyebrows defiantly at her, like “_What_,” and the woman looked away and disappeared into a stall. 

Darcy went into a stall herself, then, at the far end of the room. Latched the door, and lowered her voice a little, plugging her other ear with her finger so she could still hear over the sound of the woman peeing at the other end of the row. 

“He’s acting weird, but… it’s not like… _soulmate_ weird,” she said. “It’s more like he’s mentally unstable or something. Like I should totally be reporting him to HR.” 

“Why aren’t you?” 

“I don’t know,” she said sourly. “Because he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen?” She sighed. “Because he’s my fucking soulmate. I care about him. He’s a nice guy, when he’s not being a creepy stalker.” 

“Did it help?” said Jane. “When you touched him?” 

“It felt good,” she admitted. “Like getting that first drink of water after a long workout or something. Like, _quenching_. But it just made me want more.” 

“On a scale of one to ten,” said Jane. “How bad is it?” 

“Define ten.” 

“Like, you’re literally breaking down his door so that you can ride his cock.” 

Darcy burst out laughing, because it was the coarsest thing she’d ever heard little Jane Foster say in her life, and it felt so good— so nice to just laugh: a real one— but pretty quickly she could feel the tears starting, her emotions like a ping-pong ball, out of control. 

“I think— I guess I’m probably at a seven,” she said. “I’m, like, writhing around at night, huffing the last bits of his scent out of a dirty undershirt, while I fuck my way through my vibe collection. It’s fucking pathetic.” 

The toilet at the other end of the bathroom flushed, and Darcy almost rolled her eyes at herself. She’d forgotten she had an unwilling audience. She could hear the stall-door open, and then the sound of the sink running. The lady skipped the air-dryer, much to Darcy’s relief, and a few seconds later she could hear her heels click-clacking away. 

“Okay,” she said. “So what do I do.” 

“I can’t lie,” said Jane. “It’s gonna get worse. Like, way worse. You won’t even believe yourself. You uh… you’re gonna have to take a few days off work, if you can. But save that for when you’re at, you know…. the ten. What have you told your friends there?” 

“Nothing,” she said. “I don’t want them to know. If I have to, I’ll say I have a stomach virus or something. One of those coming-out-of-both-ends things, where nobody wants to come knocking…” 

“Good plan,” said Jane. 

“So how long does the ten last?” 

“Cold turkey? No contact?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Um… about a week? And then you’re at a six or seven for a couple more days, and then—” 

“Fuck,” she said, and she sat down then, pants-and-all, on the toilet seat. “_Fuck_. I can’t do this.” 

“You can. Trust me, you can. I’ve done it a few times. You’ve _seen_ me do it. It’s not gonna kill you. Even if it feels like it.” 

“I’m so sorry, Janey. I mean, I knew it was bad, but I never knew…” 

“I know. I know. Nobody does, until you’re in it yourself.” 

They were both quiet for a minute, and then Darcy let out a long breath and said, “What if I just went to him once. Just one time. Like, when it reaches a peak…” She rushed on then: “And then I could get out of here, before the next bad wave, so that I wouldn’t be tempted…” 

“I mean, of course that would help,” said Jane. “Like, a lot. Probably buy you an extra week, at least. But are you sure that’s what you wanna do? You can’t really go back…” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, once you know how good it can be…” 

“Ah, _fuck_— that is _not_ what I needed to hear right now…” 

“Sorry,” said Jane. “I just— be careful, okay? It might do more harm than good, in the long run. Maybe you can just… steal another one of his shirts, or find ways to touch him— just a little bit, just to take the edge off— until you can leave…” 

“The shirt’s not helping anymore,” she said. “And I’ve gone through two sets of batteries and half a thing of lube in only four days.” 

“I think you’re probably beyond a seven, then.” There was another pause, and then Jane said, “If you’re not… I mean, you’re not his soulmate, so… we keep talking about this like he’s just this… _thing_ that you can go to, or not go to, or… I mean… it’s kind of…” 

Jane stopped short of saying it would be lame, to use the guy like that, but her meaning was clear. “Do you think he’d be on board?” she said, instead. “If you did? If you just... went to him?” 

Darcy snickered— just a short, scoffing sound. “You ever have a guy kick you out of bed?” 

“Well, no… but—” 

“I know what you’re saying,” she said. “I don’t— I think if I went to him and told him, _hey, lets try this_, he’d be all for it. But not as just, like, a one-night stand. I can tell he wants more. I think in his own weird way that’s what he’s been pushing for, from the get-go. Even before. Before he said the stuff.” 

“So why don’t you? Just try it, I mean. You already said he's a nice guy, and, quote, 'the hottest guy you've ever seen', so what's stopping you?” 

It was like the most obvious question in the world, and also the question she’d been avoiding in her own mind, like some kind of mortal contagion. She didn’t want to examine it too closely. 

“I guess I’m scared,” she said, her voice small. “Really scared. I’m afraid if I give into this, even an inch… even a millimeter… it’ll be over for me. That’ll be it. I’ll be chained to him, forever, and he won’t… it won’t be the same for him. He’ll be free to just… leave. Whenever he gets tired of it. Tired of _me_.” 

“It’s a risk,” said Jane, and Darcy realized that the big fear she’d just unboxed was the reality that Jane was already living, every single day. 

“God,” she said, switching gears, because it was getting way too heavy. “What the hell do parents do, if their kids meet their soulmate when they’re only fourteen or something? I can’t even imagine…” 

“I think there’s a lot of hand-holding,” said Jane, and Darcy could hear the smile in her voice. 

She sighed, imagining it: holding hands with John. Being sweet. Nuzzling her nose against him, feeling the scrape of his noon-o’clock shadow on her face as she ran her lips down his jawline, kissed his neck… 

She wondered what he would sound like— what his breath would do if she tunneled a hand under his shirt while she kissed him… if she slung a leg over his lap and settled herself into him, so he could feel her pressing against him… could imagine it, feel him getting hard while she dragged herself against his— 

_God_, stop— _stop thinking about it_. 

There was the sound of the bathroom door opening again, and a new set of heels click-clacking on the floor. 

“Fuck,” she said. “I gotta go. I gotta get back to work.” 

“You’re gonna be okay,” said Jane. “I promise. You can do this.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a tough chapter for me to write and I feel like it should have some kind of warning on it, but I don’t even know what, precisely, the warning should be. It’s something to do with the potential harm we can do when our own inner voice is muddled, our mind and our body not entirely in sync— when there is a murky mix of “I want, but I won’t,” as much as, “I don’t, but I will,” and neither path can be completely honest… and that dishonesty hurts both ourselves and others.
> 
> Anyway… that’s my content warning, as best as I can express it.
> 
> Maybe I'm just worried everyone will hate me after this chapter. :/
> 
> Please know that I LOVE these characters and want to see them happy as much as you do.
> 
> ETA: a reader suggested I could warn for dubious consent, and I agree— there is a brief moment where a character overrides another character’s stated wishes, instead doing what they want/need to do. This does not cover everything that is uncomfortable about this chapter, but at least it’s something specific I can warn for.

There was no way in hell she could do it. 

It’d been two days since he’d ambushed her at work, and in spite of the tiny flutter of relief she’d gotten from seeing him— from touching his hand— things had gone rapidly downhill ever since. 

The tug she felt— the need to see him, touch him, hear his voice— had gone from what’d felt like a raging case of hormones, to something far more primal and demanding: like a form of witchcraft, pushing her to a state of frenzied delirium. If she hadn’t known the cause of it, she’d have been enabling the emergency alert on her phone, begging for help… would have assumed she was dying… 

It was confusion and need, with an edge of combativeness— a desire to fight, to feel her blood pumping. She’d pass out in bed, only to wake herself up with her own fevered ramblings, strings of nonsense words, and a cramping ache that made her double over as it moved through her body like a poisonous wave. 

To John’s credit, he’d kept his distance, just as she’d asked. She’d been expecting to get another text from him, or even a knock on her door— which, at this point, she would have been in no condition to turn down. 

At first she was grateful for his compliance, but even that backfired eventually— just turned into another way for her stupid body to say _yes: he’s the one_, because it almost felt like he was trying to take care of her— by respecting her stated wishes. Her soul approved. 

But then, anything he did at this point would probably stoke the flames. He could read stock-market data to her, and she’d be moaning and pawing at him. 

At one point, when she’d tossed the undershirt aside, unable to get any further relief from it, she’d broken down and Googled him: John Brennan. There was nothing about the guy who lived down on B3; it was all some other dude— some old guy who worked for Obama. 

The facility’s online directory was likewise useless; there weren’t even any listings for the blue-collar staff, much less head-shots. 

She just wanted to see his face. Thought maybe it’d be comforting. Out of desperation, she even looked up that guy that Kim had shown them before: 1940s guy. 

It took her a while to find him; she couldn’t remember his name. She had to read almost the entire Wikipedia on Captain America to track him down. 

It was a mistake. 

She clicked on the _Howling Commandos_ link, and the grainy, black-and-white picture that popped up— a group photo of some smiling, now-long-dead soldiers— included a man who was so reminiscent of her John (God: ‘_her_ John’) that she immediately closed it, shoving the phone away like it’d bitten her. It was frightening: the image had made her flush with an almost vengeful surge of need, just from seeing some guy with a similar face— a guy who could be her great-grandpa… 

In the middle of the night, on the eighth day after he’d said her words, she woke up in a sweat, her sheets soaked, her head exploding, and she knew she’d reached the ten. 

She knew it because she realized, with a terrifying clarity, that Jane hadn’t been kidding: She was going to go down to maintenance, break down his fucking door, and rip off his clothes, so that she could lick him all over before climbing onto his cock. 

It seemed like a really good idea. In fact she was already out of bed, throwing a thin little robe over her sleep-shorts and shirt, and sliding her feet into a pair of old flip-flops. 

She wasn’t nervous as she left her room for the first time in days, and then made her way purposefully down the quiet hallway, looking like warmed-over shit. There was no ambivalence or fear when she stepped into the empty elevator car and pressed the button for B3; she just stood back and waited, watching the numbers tick down after the car lurched and began to descend. 

It never occurred to her to talk to him first. To warn him: to text him, call him, tell him she was coming. To let him know that there was a nuclear missile headed his way. 

If she’d had to describe what she was feeling, it was mostly a sense of relief: gratitude that every step— every second of motion— was bringing her body closer to his. Her need for him was everything. 

The lights were off in Maintenance. Under normal circumstances, she would have been creeped out by how eerie the benches and equipment looked in the darkness— like a set for a horror movie— but there was none of that in her head. Her heart was pounding from a different kind of tension as she moved through the shadows, threading her way over to his private, walled-off workspace in the far corner. 

She could smell him in there, even before she stepped through the doorway: like he’d left behind layers of his scent as he’d moved about, doing his work. She paused, her eyes shutting as she breathed it in, and it was like a balm, soothing her fever, and maybe if she’d gotten enough of it, she could have come to her senses, gone back to her room, but no: The rightness of it just seemed to fuel her decision as she took the last few steps to his door. 

And as much as it’d been a funny joke before, she might have actually broken down the door, if she’d been capable. But she was small, and human, and maybe had one shred of decency left, so she simply took a deep breath and knocked. 

She wasn’t timid about it, but after a brief pause, she knocked a few more times, just in case. She placed her palms on the cool metal of the door, leaning in, pressing her ear against it—trying to hear inside. There was a rustling, and a thump of feet hitting the floor, and then she knew that he was coming, and she could feel it everywhere, like a surging pulse inside her, growing louder by the second… 

The door cracked and then opened, swinging inward, and then he was right there, filling the doorway: Solid. Real. Like some kind of conjuring-up of everything she craved, gathered and pressed and formed into a living, breathing man. The one unique human being that she needed, more than the air itself. 

He was shirtless, one-armed, a pair of old-fashioned white boxer shorts the only thing covering his body, and her eyes moved down, adjusting to the low light. The shorts were cheap, the woven fabric so thin that she could see the tint of his skin-color through it, the shadow of his body hair… 

He’d been sleeping… his eyes were half-open and his hair was mussed up, and she could smell the light sheen of sweat on his skin, and she wanted to taste it: wanted to move in and put her open mouth on his chest and savor it… to rip down his shorts and take him in hand and— 

“Darcy?” His voice was rough. He was surprised. Concerned. He had no idea what she was doing there. Not that it mattered. He’d learn soon enough. 

She knew she must look fucked up: like a crazy person. And she was. She was crazy. She didn’t care. 

She was standing there in his doorway in a loose T-shirt, no bra, some knit sleep-shorts that showed off most of her thighs, her thin, crappy robe hanging open. She could see his eyes taking her in, trying to understand: to make sense of her being there, in that condition, after everything she’d said… and before he could speak again, she was kicking off her flip-flops and stepping toward him, forcing herself inside, not asking. 

He stepped back for her, making room. “What happened.” He was starting to wake up a little. “You okay?” 

She was bathing in it now, the smell of him: it’d filled the small room in his sleep, and it was all around her, like a vapor— concentrated— making her eyes feel heavy, her body almost swaying with need… 

She didn’t answer his question. Fumbled with her hand behind her, feeling for the door. Pushed it shut by leaning her body into it, like a finality. And then stepped toward him again. 

“What—” 

She moved in close, crowding him, and then reached up, only pausing for a moment, her hand hovering over his bare chest, and that was it: the last chance to reconsider— and it was silly that she’d even bothered to pause, because there was never any question. 

She committed, breaking through the inch of air that separated her palm from his heart, her eyes falling shut as she made contact— could feel that he was warm and real— and she both heard and felt him pull in a breath and hold it, as her cells seemed to sink into his, merging… 

She could feel everything: the rise and fall of his chest as he began to breathe again, the pound of his heart, getting faster, the air moving around them as their lungs synced up. There was the faintest brush of his fingers against her arm as he lifted his hand, and she waited to feel it on her body, but it didn’t alight anywhere, and she opened her eyes to see what he was doing… 

His eyes were shut, his lips gently parted, and she was lost for a moment in how beautiful he looked… his eyelashes were so dark, matching his hair, the shadow on his jaw… 

She moved her hand up to his lips, feeling them with her fingertips, surprised by how soft they were. She let her fingers trail down, her middle finger dragging through the cleft of his chin, the sandpaper stubble, down his neck to return to his chest, and it was only then that she noticed his hand was frozen in the air: raised but faltering, like he’d instinctively reached for her but then stopped, uncertain. 

“Darcy,” he said— quieter now, no longer a question— and she dared to step in a little closer, the tips of her breasts almost brushing against him through her shirt, and still he held his hand motionless, like he was afraid to shatter the air. 

The sound of their breathing was the only noise in the room, and she crowded him a little more… edging him back, pushing on him with her hand, guiding him to the desk, and he was following her cues, stepping backward, until the backs of his thighs hit the desktop, stopping him, and his hand finally moved, dropping to grab at the edge of the wood. 

She wanted to say his name… like he’d said hers. Like an answer. A devotion. But she couldn’t form the word, couldn’t make her lips work… Everything was so heavy and slow, like the densely veiled landscapes of a dream… 

She moved her hand on his chest, sliding it down, over the hair between his muscles… traced over his contours, the lines and shadows, and then lower, and he was just breathing, letting her do it, letting her touch him, not interfering… 

When she passed his navel, she rotated her hand so that her fingers were pointed downward, and she kept going, pressing against him to slip under the stretchy waistband of his shorts, and he flinched, his hand darting out— 

“Don’t,” he said. His hand was gripping her wrist, stopping her. “Wait—” 

But then his fingers loosened, and when she looked up to him, his eyes were open, his dilated pupils making them look dark like the room, and she couldn’t read what was in them, but she held them with her own as she began to move her hand again, reaching inside to feel him there, bare and hot and already so hard, and his eyes fell shut again as she wrapped her fingers around him… 

She was moving her hand slowly, feeling the silky glide of skin over the stiffness beneath its surface, and he was almost holding his breath, and when she ran her thumb through the bead of moisture at the tip, he made a sound— almost like she’d hurt him… 

And there was something so vulnerable about it— that sound he’d made— that it all finally caught up to her: the _Don’t_ and the _Wait_ and the way he’d frozen, the way he’d flinched, and that tiny little piece of decency she’d still felt when she’d first knocked on his door was screaming at her to _step back_… 

The best she could do was a stuttered whisper as she tipped her face back up, latched onto him with her eyes, waiting for his to open again, and when they did, she knew by the way he looked back at her that he could see her fear… 

“Say it again,” she said, breathing it out, and she didn’t know if she was asking for him, or for herself. “Tell me to leave… tell me to stop…” 

His fingers were still loose on her wrist, and they tightened a little, and she was sure he was going to pull her away, but he just looked at her with a kind of pleading, as raw as her own, and whispered it: “Don’t want you to.” He shut his eyes and swallowed, thickly, and said it again: “_Fuck_— I can’t— I don’t want you to. Don’t want you to stop.” 

His hand moved down to cover her own, where it was still wrapped around him, inside his shorts, and he squeezed it, telling her to do it: to touch him again, to move her hand on him, and it was like something shifted… 

He let go of her as she began to work him again, pulling sounds from him as she did it… building a tension they could both feel, and his breathing changed— getting deeper and louder, his need increasing… 

His hand moved to her hair— finally daring to touch her freely— his fingers curling against her scalp, and she was tugging at the waistband of her own shorts with her other hand, trying to get them off without stopping… 

And without any warning, he dipped his head down, his nose brushing against her, his lips trying to find her, trying to kiss her, and she panicked and let go, almost stepping back. He fell into the desk a little, sitting on the edge of it, his thighs spreading open. 

They just looked at each other for a few seconds, almost like a standoff, and then, having both hands free, she threw off her robe and pushed her shorts down, letting them fall to the floor, baring herself from the waist down. 

She could see his eyes moving over her in the dark, and his hand went to her arm as she climbed up to him awkwardly, one knee at a time, until she was straddling him on the desk, and she could smell herself— a whiff of her musky wetness wafting up from her spread-out legs— and she knew he could smell it too… 

“Darcy…” He said her name again, a whisper on his lips, and it was like he was dazed, his hand moving to her thigh, sliding from hip to knee and back up again, and it was too soft, too caring… 

She reached between them and yanked down his shorts, one side and then the other, until she could pull him out and see him, and he was heavy and hard and leaking, and she wanted to put her mouth on him— to taste him, to make him shout— but she needed to feel him in her like she needed to breathe… 

She lifted herself up, grasping him in her hand, holding him steady as she lined them up, and when she touched the tip of him to her wetness, he sucked in a breath, his fingers curling into her hip, bruising, and she didn’t wait, didn’t pause, but lowered herself down, just a little bit, her body spreading out around him, and he made a sound that was so candidly desperate that she stopped halfway— fighting the urge to just barrel forward and take what she needed, her muscles straining to hold herself there.

She put one hand on his face, spoke to him with her eyes, like everything in her— every part of her but her mouth— was saying, “_It’s okay… It’s okay_…” 

And she almost kissed him then— the instinct overwhelming, his lips so close… the need to comfort him almost as strong as the need to be filled… 

His hips pushed up, instinctively, and it saved her from it: broke the momentary spell of her emotions breaking through... the pulse of him inside her reminding her why she was there, and she turned her face away, moved her hands to his shoulders as she began to move again, lifting up a little before easing down again... slicking him up so she could slide around him the rest of the way, reveling in the stretch as her body adjusted to his size… 

Once she was there— all the way down, her ass in his lap, as close as she could get, feeling the full girth of him seated inside her, where he belonged— she sighed in relief, her head sagging onto his shoulder. 

She kept her eyes shut, trying to breathe through the intensity of it: a feeling of such deep satisfaction that her eyes were stinging, her senses saturated by the touch of his skin inside and around her... the scent of his body, the flavor of it in the air, so heavy she could already taste it… 

She almost felt bad, that he couldn’t feel what she was feeling, because it was incredible… 

His hand moved to her back, holding her against him as she just sat in his lap, joined to him, and they weren’t even moving, weren’t fucking… just lingering there, together, breathing, feeling it… the connection… 

Her forehead was still on his shoulder, and she tilted her head up to brush her lips against his skin, needing to taste him, her mouth soft and open, and she shuddered out a breath as her tongue dipped out instinctively, dragging a few inches along his collarbone, gathering the salt of his sweat, and he moaned and moved inside her… 

And it was a dumb thing to do, but she had to get another look— had to see his face; needed to know how he looked when he made a sound like that… 

She lifted her head to see, and… 

He was staring at her, with hooded eyes and soft lips… and there was something so exposed in his expression, like his feelings for her were written on the planes of his face. It made her eyes sting again, and then he pulsed up into her as he exhaled. He leaned in, trying to kiss her again, and she dodged it— turning so that his lips glanced against her cheekbone instead— and he made a different kind of sound, frustrated… 

“Why,” he whispered, and his hand went into her hair again, caressing her, trying to get her to turn back, to face him. “Why won’t you let me…” 

She answered by squeezing him inside, as hard as she could— a cheap distraction, so he wouldn’t see that he was killing her— and it worked: he moaned again, his head dipping down as his jaw fell open, shuddering… 

“Sweetheart…” 

It was gonna make her cry, if he kept talking… kept trying to kiss her, to make it beautiful… 

Like it wasn’t already… 

She didn’t want beautiful. Didn’t want to remember it like this: raw and real and everything her hungry soul wanted from him. She almost felt angry, and she pushed against his chest, trying to keep his face away— to break the connection. 

“Pick me up,” she said, her voice rough with emotion. 

“What?” 

“Can you— can you pick me up? Without— with just the one arm?” 

He complied, sliding them together off the edge of the desk, his one arm curling around her ass to support her, and she could tell it was no problem for him at all, even one-armed, and maybe it’d been a mistake, because— like everything else about him— the effortless strength was making her insides say _perfect perfect perfect_… even though she knew he’d gotten that way because of someone else— some other soul calling to him, claiming him— and it made something snarl and snap out and say, _Mine_… 

She’d intended to lie back on the desk— to have him flip them around, swap positions— to spread herself out, egg him on, make it hard and fast. Burn away the need, and then go, before this got any more dangerous. But the way he was holding her, looking at her— just being able to see his face as her body clasped around him inside… it was already too dangerous. 

“Bed,” she said gruffly, unable to say more, and he moved them toward it, obeying her, and he sat them down, still holding her in his lap, the jumble of sitting down bumping him high up against her inside, and then he settled them again, his face so tender as he looked at her… 

He reached up to run his fingers through her hair, his eyes moving over her face with a kind of reverence— like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was— and she could tell he was going to try to kiss her again… 

For a second her mind flashed on it: on the heady fantasy of letting him do what he wanted… imagined how it would feel to succumb to it— to drown in it completely, as she lay back and let him love her… thought of their lips moving together slowly, the sounds he would make as he filled her inside, over and over… 

It couldn’t happen. 

Before he could even try, she lifted herself up and off of him, almost hissing at the emptiness she felt when he slipped out. 

“You okay?” he asked, surprised by her sudden departure, but she didn’t answer: just crawled toward the pillow on all fours, hating the ache she already felt from needing him back inside her, not caring how unsexy she must look: like Porky Pig— obscene— on her hands and knees with a shirt and no pants… 

“Come on,” she said, her voice a little husky, and when he didn’t immediately join her, she glanced back, over her shoulder, risking another look… 

His face was flushed— wrecked-looking— and he was staring at her, his eyes dark, and she knew she was being confusing: cruel even… His boxers were still mostly on, just shoved down his hips, his cock jutting out of them, still wet from her body, and she said it again: “_Come on_.” 

She was rocking a little, getting shades of the sickness she’d suffered back in her room: building, desperate, pleading— and maybe he could see it in her face, because he started to shove his shorts the rest of the way off, and she turned her face toward the pillow again, waiting… 

She felt the mattress dip as he crawled up behind her, felt the brush of his bare legs against the backs of her thighs… his hand, light, landing on her hip, touching her too softly, like he cared, and then it lifted away as he moved back slightly, and she could imagine him gripping himself, lining them up again… 

“This okay,” he said, and she felt the tip of him bumping against her, right where she needed him, and she tried to back into him, shameless, unable to wait or go slowly… 

“Just do it,” she said, almost angry— wanting to be angry at him— and he moved his hand back to her hip and finally slid all the way in, easily this time, both of them still slick from before, and she tried not to moan, not wanting him to know how good he felt… 

His pelvis hit her ass as he bottomed out, and he just held there, unmoving, breathing heavily, and for a second she thought he was going to come right then, and she was going to _kill_ him… 

“Move,” she said, pushing back on him with her ass. “Need you to move…” 

“Shhhh…” he said. “I got you.” And he wrapped his arm around her from behind, almost draping his big body over her, and it was like he was everywhere, holding her, and as he pulled her into his chest, his face dropped to the back of her neck, his lips brushing against the wisps of hair there… 

She’d thought it would be more impersonal like this, facing away. Safer. 

She was wrong. 

She could still feel his breath on her back, the rumble of his moans as he pulled out slowly and then slid back in again, holding there again, deep, as he exhaled, and then he did it again… and again… 

He was taking care of her, paying attention to her body, his arm still wrapped around her. Loving her as he moved, stroking her inside with a tenderness that made her feel like she was everything to him… 

He was breaking her down, taking her apart, and she was almost crying as she said it: “_Please_…” Unable to say what she needed, because she was lying, even to herself… 

She wanted him to go faster, harder: make it less personal. Make it something ugly that she could look back on with scorn. But he misunderstood her plea, and even though he picked up the pace, it just stoked his passion, giving her more, and his voice was right there, behind her, in between the rhythm of his heavy, ragged breathing, panting out the words to her as he took care of her with his body… 

“God… _fuck_, I— Sweetheart… _Babydoll_…” 

She was crying now, her hands curling into the sheets as she dropped her head to hide her tears, knowing he’d stop if he could see them. He was giving her everything— everything. He was making love to her… pouring it into her skin… marking her, claiming her, affirming what her soul already knew: she was _his_. 

He was slowing down, nearing his finish, both of them trembling as he pulled her even closer, and she could feel his strength as he leaned back, almost pulling her into his lap, his arm still wrapped around her waist, and he was running his lips against her, his breath hot on her skin, stopping short of kissing her— like he was still trying to respect her boundaries, even as he stroked her inside… 

He was chanting her name: “_Darcy… Darcy_…,” and he rocked them forward again, so he could reach down to feel her, to run his fingers through the mess of sopping flesh just above the glide of his cock, and she gasped as he touched her, the sensitivity almost unbearable, and he slowed down even more, his hips almost shaking with each desperate roll, and then she was coming apart with a cry, and he held there, his chest against her back, moaning as she spasmed around him, and a few seconds later she felt him surge and spill inside her. 

“Let me go,” she whispered, as soon as she could feel he was done. “Let me go.” He released his hold on her, and she let herself fall forward, face-down on the bed, and as she felt him fall out— when she knew that was it: the last she’d ever feel him— she began to sob. 

She could hear him trying to speak to her: worried, almost scared, his hand hovering above her sweaty back, without actually touching her— like he didn’t have the right, in spite of what they’d just done… 

“Darcy… honey… did I hurt you? Did I hurt you?” 

She couldn’t answer him— didn’t even know how. Yes, he’d hurt her. But not in the way he meant. And it wasn’t his fault… it was hers. Her mistake. 

“Please, sweetheart… talk to me…” 

She couldn’t stop crying. She could feel that the pain was gone: the agonizing, searing need that’d brought her to his door had finally ebbed, but it’d been replaced by something worse: a different, deeper ache, and one that she couldn’t just fuck away. 

She could hear the echo of Jane’s warning: _You can’t really go back_. She should have listened. Should have stayed strong. 

“Sweetheart,” he said again, and she needed him to stop talking, stop caring… 

She struggled then to sit up, wiping her face. She wouldn’t turn around. Wouldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see his pretty face, full of concern… 

“Don’t call me that,” she said, her voice colder than she’d intended, and she could feel him go still, behind her, and she hated herself for hurting him, for doing this, for being so fucking selfish… hurting both of them… but she turned her heart to stone and did what needed doing. 

She slid out of the bed and shuffled on rubbery, trembling legs back to the desk. She could already feel the trickle of his come leaking out of her, running down the inside of her thigh. She could feel his eyes on her, hear his breathing while she bent down to pick up her sleep shorts. Stepped into them, shaking, one leg at a time. Bent again, to pick up her robe. 

She felt like she was leaving a crime scene. 

“Please,” she heard him say, and his voice was breaking, and it was breaking her, too… “Please just tell me if I hurt you…” 

And then: “I should have stopped you— I should have— I’m sorry…” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, her voice sounding dead, and she went to the door, put her hand on the knob. She could hear him shuffling behind her, maybe trying to find his shorts, fumbling around with one arm. There was nothing she could say to fix it, so she stopped trying. 

“Darcy, _wait_,” he said, but by the time he pulled on his shorts and scrambled up to stop her, she was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	13. Chapter 13

He felt sick. 

It was a deep, visceral ache that he couldn’t sleep off, couldn’t shake. 

It’d been hours since she’d left his room, and he still hadn’t moved from his bed— didn’t want to. 

She’d left him there, fleeing from his presence so quickly that he’d still been damp from being inside her, even as he’d tried to pull on his shorts— too dazed, too slow, to stop her… 

He could smell her all over his body: the only proof, outside of his scattered mind, that any of it’d been real. And when it’d become clear that she wasn’t coming back, he’d lain back down, rolled onto his side, and tried not to think about how making love to Darcy had been the first time, since he’d woken up to this new reality, that he hadn’t felt like a fraud. 

Something strange had happened between them. He couldn’t explain it, even in his own mind. 

He could understand her side of it; anyone could: the overpowering pull of the soulbond made people do crazy things (and he suffered now, playing through it in his mind, remembering the way she’d begged him: _Tell me to stop_… like she’d been counting on the fortitude of his comparatively unclouded mind, to help her make a better decision.) 

Only he hadn’t been clear-minded at all. He’d been just as affected, completely awash in… what? Lust? No— it was something else. But why? Why was he already in so deep: so thoroughly committed to this girl he barely knew? He was acting like he was in love… 

A petty voice inside suggested that maybe it’d just been so long… he literally couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with a woman… But that didn’t explain the feelings he’d had… the connection he’d felt as he’d moved inside her, held her to him, felt the beat of her heart through her skin, the rush of her blood beneath it… 

He’d made love to her as though his life had depended on it… 

There was something going on here that he didn’t understand: something that couldn’t be explained away as just another symptom of his amnesia, his PTSD, the effects of all the meds, or the withdrawal. 

Maybe when he’d said her words, it’d done something to him, too… some anomaly, or… but that didn’t explain his creepy behavior before then… the way he’d followed her around, needed to know her whereabouts, her status. 

The thing was, he didn’t even care about the _why_, if only she’d be willing to… what? Trust him? Trust his feelings? _He_ couldn’t even do that. And why would she? They barely knew each other. None of it made any sense. 

The only thing that made sense as he lay there like he was comatose, eyes staring, unseeing, at the dark wall beside him, was that he missed her. Already missed her presence— the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin, the touch of her breath on his body— like a vital component he’d only now realized was missing. Like a piece of his heart that he hadn’t felt until it was ripped away— and now it was bleeding like an open wound, and he didn’t know how to stop it. 

He dozed, on and off, feeling like he wanted to cry, because he’d never wanted to hurt her… never wanted to do anything ugly— not to her… but his eyes stayed dry, his body too numb to let the feelings break free. He wrapped himself up in the sheets that now smelled of stale sweat and sex and the memory of her breath. 

He dreamed. 

They were making love, her legs wrapped around him as he moved against her in languid waves, rolling into her like water, holding her face with his hand as he kissed her, slowly, and she sighed and smiled and whispered his name like a faraway echo, and they were happy… 

And then later, it was his turn to smile as she wrapped her little arms around him from behind as he sat on the edge of the bed in some bright, sun-baked room, and he turned his head to look back at her— over his left shoulder— and when he looked down, he could see the dark words there on his bare left arm, like a band of scrollwork wrapping around his bicep, and he reached over to feel it with his right hand— confused, when flesh met flesh… no artificial limb— and he knew she shouldn’t be there, in his past, when his body was still whole… and just as he had the thought, she vanished, and he woke up, bathed in sweat… 

He sat up in the tangle of damp sheets, instinctively looking down to where the words had been in the dream, but there was nothing there: no arm, no words— just the titanium rod that was anchored to his bone— and he needed to go back: to return to the dream… read the words on his arm, see what they were… 

It was important… 

His phone chimed, and he realized that was why he’d woken up— pulled out of the dream too soon… 

He scrambled for it: thinking, stupidly, that it was her— that she was coming back— but when he looked at the screen, he saw that it was just his therapist: 

_Are you coming in today?_

He checked the time: He was over fifteen minutes late for his twice-weekly morning session. 

He didn’t bother to respond. Muted the phone and then clicked it off. Rolled back onto his side, facing the wall. Tried to go back to sleep. 

Some time later— he’d managed to doze off again, but had failed to recapture the dream— there was an insistent banging at his door, waking him up, and he heard Peck, shouting at him from the other side. 

“Brennan! You in there?” 

He slung his legs over the edge of the mattress and pushed himself up, shuffled over to the door. Cracked it open enough to see the man standing there in his coveralls. 

“What is it,” he said, his voice rough and dry. Though he’d been sleeping for hours, he felt like he hadn’t rested at all. 

“You sick or somethin’? We got orders pilin’ up.” 

“Sorry,” he said, absently itching at the stump of his left arm. “Overslept. I’ll uh… shower and be right out.” 

Peck tilted his head a little, like he was trying to see in. Probably wondering if he had a girl in there again— if that was why he was late. 

His girl. 

Not this time. Maybe never again, judging by the way she’d left. 

“That it?” he said, feeling testy. 

“Yeah,” said Peck. “Hurry it up, willya? I heard Fury’s comin’ next week, so everything’s gotta be tip-top.” 

John just nodded and then shut the door again. Went back to the bed and unburied his phone, sat down as he turned it back on. There was a pileup of missed messages and phone calls. None of them from her. A couple from Peck, the rest from his therapist. 

_Did you get my text? Let me know. We can reschedule._

_I’m concerned. Please call me back._

_John please let me know you’re all right. Call or text as soon as you get this._

He sighed and clicked on the most recent message, hitting the _reply_ button. Lady was gonna send some goons to do a welfare check on him, if he didn’t respond. 

_I’m fine_, he wrote. _Overslept_. 

She responded almost immediately: _Thank you for letting me know. Glad you’re okay. I have a 2 o’clock open today if you want to reschedule_. 

He thought about it a minute, and then wrote back, _Very busy here, backed up. Will have to do it some other time._

There was a longer delay, and then: _I could do an evening appointment if that would work better_. There was a pause, and then she sent through a couple of question marks, as though demanding an immediate response. 

_Can’t today_, he said. _Can we figure this out later. Need to get to work_. 

_Of course_, she wrote back. _And thank you again for checking in_. 

* * *

Doctor Oberly put down her phone and looked at the two agents sitting across from her, at her desk. 

“He refused the appointment,” she said. 

“Okay,” said the female agent, a tough-looking woman with flinty blue eyes and a blonde ponytail. “So does that mean we go to plan B?” 

“That could be… messy,” said Oberly, fidgeting with a paperclip. She was tapping it against the desktop. “If we can hold off for a few more days…” 

“I don’t see how we can,” said the other agent, a tall, fair-skinned man with close-cropped hair. “Sitwell’s riding my ass on this. Says we gotta do it now. Today, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest. Said Coulson’s gonna override him and go his own way if we wait any longer.” 

“What about Agent May?” said the woman. “Apparently she’s been doing her own surveillance…” 

Oberly rolled herself sideways at her desk, reaching for her tablet. She tapped on it a few times and studied something on the screen. 

“How many can we count on, if we do it tomorrow?” she said. “In the morning.” She looked up, explaining. “May’s got a class at seven.” 

The two agents looked at each other. “Four?” said the woman. “Five, if you count Peck.” 

“Peck’s an idiot,” said Oberly. “He doesn’t even realize what we’re dealing with.” 

“He could handle the girl, though, if they’re together when we do it,” said the woman. 

“True,” said Oberly. “What about security?” 

“We’re good all week,” said the man. “Tomorrow’d be ideal, actually; think we got three guys on the morning shift— they can run whatever interference we need.” 

Oberly had picked up the paperclip again— tapped it a few more times against the desktop, and then stopped, deciding. “Tomorrow, then,” she said. “Set it up.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” said the two agents, in unison. 

* * *

John finished the last item on the list of orders and bagged it, and sat back in his chair. He’d worked late to get it all done. He’d only left the workshop once, to get food from the cafeteria, and had brought it back to his desk, eating as he worked. It was after dinnertime now. 

He checked his phone. No new messages. 

The work had been a useful distraction while it’d lasted, but now that he was finished, thoughts of Darcy came crashing back in, crawling under his skin like a fire licking at his nerves. He needed to see her. Hear her voice. Know she was okay. To apologize, for— 

He didn’t want to apologize for being with her. It’d been the best thing he’d felt since— it was impossible to say. Maybe ever. 

He could also remember her sobbing. It made his chest feel tight. 

He opened up messages and typed it out before he could talk himself out of it. 

_I need to see you_. 

Five minutes passed. 

Nothing. 

Sent another one: 

_Where are you_. 

He got up from the workbench and went into his room, set his phone down on the small vanity while he washed his flesh hand. His fingernails were dirty. He opened the mirrored cabinet above the vanity and found the nail-trimmer, slid out the little metal file inside of it and used it to dig the crud out. Trimmed them down. Washed his hand again, dried it on a towel. 

Checked the phone. No answer. Tried again: 

_Please talk to me. I need to see you, need to talk to you_. 

He was staring at himself in the mirror, feeling like he didn’t recognize the man staring back: Who was he, even? Why couldn’t he remember? 

He was the man who’d said Darcy’s words. It was the only thing, in that moment, of which he was absolutely certain. 

He had to see her. If she wouldn’t respond to him, then he’d go find her. Find one of her friends, get her room number. She’d sought him out at his room; he could do the same. Just to talk. To figure this out. 

He smelled bad. He’d take a shower, and if she hadn’t responded by the time he got out, he’d go looking for her. It seemed like a sound plan. 

Twenty minutes later, he was putting on his prosthetic arm. He dressed quickly, and then sat down on the bed again to lace up his boots. He checked the phone again. Nothing. 

He sent one more text: 

_I’m coming to find you_. 

He was halfway out the door when he heard the chime. 

_Just stay away please. I’m sorry if I hurt you_. 

He replied immediately: _Where are you_. 

It took her a while to respond, and he paced back and forth in his doorway, waiting, trying to think where to look for her first, if she didn’t respond. 

Finally, a chime: _I’m not on base. Just forget me. Please_. 

Not on base. He had that panicked feeling again. Had she already left? Found some other place to stay until she could leave for good? 

There was no other place to stay. Maybe she was drinking again. He imagined her driving in the desert, an open bottle between her legs. Or just sitting out there alone somewhere, in the dark. It was getting colder now, at night, in the open desert. 

_Where are you_. 

No answer. 

He pulled the door shut the rest of the way and headed toward the elevators. 

* * *

Kim set down the beer on the worn wooden table, fidgeted with the label on it for a second before she spoke. 

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” 

They were sitting in a dark booth in the shitty little bar in town. Darcy was already on her third beer. 

“I told you,” she said. “I need to get shit-faced. So that’s your last beer. You need to be my designated driver.” 

“Okay,” said Kim. “You gonna tell me why?” 

Darcy didn’t answer right away. She glanced over to the bar. Mark— cute gym guy— was sitting at the bar with some of his buddies. He’d been trying to reach her for a few days, about their tentative plans to go out some time. She hadn’t called him back; she’d been too busy being soulsick and fucking John Brennan. 

“I slept with him,” she said, her voice low. 

Kim followed Darcy’s eyes over to the bar. Leaned in, lowered her voice to a hiss. “You slept with Mark? I thought you were sick with the shits all week.” 

“Not him,” said Darcy, looking down at the table again. She let out a breath. “With John. Maintenance guy.” 

“Are you serious?” If anything, Kim sounded impressed. When she could see that Darcy wasn’t kidding, she leaned in even closer. “Holy _shit_, girl. Give me all the juicy details. Was he as good as he looks?” 

Darcy’s eyes flicked to the bar again— she saw Kyle, the asshole John had attacked in the gym, taking a seat next to Mark at the bar. Huh. Apparently Mark had lied about not hanging out with him anymore. 

“Hey, you okay?” 

She looked back at Kim again— the other woman was eyeing her with concern now. 

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” 

“No,” she said, almost whispering it. “It was… amazing. Like, the most amazing— ” She couldn’t finish the sentence. 

Kim sat back, took a drink of her beer. “So what’s the problem? You in love with him or something?” 

There was movement by the booth, and they both looked up to see Mark standing there, a friendly smile on his face. “Ladies,” he said. 

“Hey, Mark,” said Kim, smiling back for both of them, while Darcy looked down, pretended to look for something in her wristlet. 

“You guys want some company?” 

“Nah, that’s okay,” said Kim. “Kinda having a girl’s night.” 

“That’s cool, that’s cool,” said Mark. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.” 

She didn’t know why she said it— it just popped out. “I don’t date liars,” said Darcy. She’d zipped up the wristlet and took a long swig of the beer, and then plunked the bottle down on the table. “And I’m sure as hell not gonna hang out with _that_ asshole.” 

Mark turned his head toward the bar to see who she meant. He laughed. “Who, Kyle?” He turned back to look at them again. “Thought that all got sorted out.” 

“What, that he’s definitely an asshole?” Darcy wasn’t laughing, and she wouldn’t look at Mark. She didn’t know why she was picking a fight. 

“Hey, come on,” said Mark. “Don’t be like that.” 

“Like what?” said Darcy evenly. “Smart? Principled?” 

Kim was laughing nervously now. “Maybe we should just go,” she said to Darcy. “Come on, let’s get a bottle. We can go back to my place.” 

“Sounds good to me,” said Mark. 

Darcy slammed the rest of her beer and stood up, along with Kim. “Nobody invited you,” she said, turning sideways to get past Mark, who was partially blocking their booth. 

“Hey, what the fuck is your problem,” said Mark, and he grabbed her arm as she tried to squeeze by. “I thought you were into me.” 

As soon as he touched her, Darcy was almost knocked over by a wave of nausea so intense that she actually dry-heaved. “Let me go,” she gasped. 

“What’d you do to her?” said Kim, pushing Mark aside. “You okay?” she said to Darcy, putting her hand on her back. “What happened?” 

“Don’t know,” said Darcy, swallowing down the bile. She was trying to catch her breath, stand up straight. The sick feeling was still there, though the intensity was abating somewhat. “Feel sick.” 

“I didn’t do anything,” said Mark, sounding defensive, but the women ignored him. 

“I gotta get some air,” said Darcy, taking a few careful breaths. “Can— can you get that bottle?” she asked Kim. 

“You still wanna get a bottle?” Kim was surprised. 

“Yeah,” said Darcy. She was still hunched over, hands on her knees, watching Mark through narrowed eyes as he made his way back over to the bar, shaking his head. “Don’t know what that was,” she said. “It’s getting better now. I’ll— I’ll meet you outside, okay?” 

“You sure?” said Kim. 

“Yeah,” said Darcy, finally straightening up. “Yeah. Better to have it and not need it, you know?” 

“All right,” said Kim. “I’ll be out in a minute.” 

Darcy made her way over to the exit, trying to mask how queasy she still felt. It’d been startling, the intensity of the feeling when Mark had grabbed her. It reminded her of something… she was trying to remember… 

She made it outside, the screen door slamming behind her, and took in a few gulps of the cool night air, trying to regain her equilibrium. She was staring up at the stars when it hit her: Peck. She’d had the same queasy feeling when Peck had grabbed her down in Maintenance, over a week ago. She’d thought it was just her hangover, but… 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck _fuck_… 

She tried to remember if any other man had physically touched her, within the past week. It was unlikely. She’d either been at work, or holed up in her room for most of it, suffering on her bed… 

No… it’d just been John, in the desert, holding her hand… and then Peck, the next morning, grabbing her arm. John, in his room last night… 

And now Mark, also grabbing at her arm, just like Peck. 

Was this her _gift?_ Her fucking bond-gift? To get physically ill if any man other than John dared to touch her? Of all the— 

“You okay?” 

She flinched at the voice, opening her eyes, and he was there: right there, in front of her, like an apparition: John Brennan. 

“What the fuck,” she said, stumbling backward. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay away….” 

He had his hand out, like he wanted to help: to catch her if she started to fall. His face was full of concern but he stayed glued to the ground, not making a move toward her. He dropped his hand to his side when she steadied herself. 

He looked even more beautiful than before, standing there in the starlight with the backdrop of crickets and the buzzing neon lights in the tavern windows— looking like a fricking male model, even in his crappy grey sweatpants and plain black T-shirt, and it pissed her off. It was like the impact he had on her increased with each encounter, even if the base physical symptoms had receded, at least for the time being. 

“You stalking me again?” she said. “What, you think just because we fucked, you own me now?” 

She could see his face flinch, just a bit, at her words— they’d hurt him, just as she’d intended. 

“Don’t say that,” he said softly. 

The door to the bar banged shut again, and then Kim was there, carrying a brown paper bag. “Everything okay here?” she said, her eyes moving between the two of them. 

“Yeah,” said Darcy. “Everything’s fine.” 

John didn’t answer. He was just staring at Darcy, unmoving. 

Kim was still looking between the two of them, and she said, “Ummm…. I think I’ll just go wait in the car. You, uh… you guys take all the time you need.” 

Neither of them replied; they were still in some kind of standoff. Kim raised her eyebrows and then crunched off across the gravel lot toward the parked car. There was a _beep-beep_ as she pressed the button on the key-fob, unlocking the door, and Darcy heard the door slam shut a moment later. 

She spoke first: “What are you doing here?” She said it softer this time. It was hard to stay angry at him. 

His eyes were fixed on her, like he couldn’t have looked away if he’d tried. “I needed to know you were safe.” 

“I can take care of myself,” she said. 

He waited a moment before responding. “You sure about that?” He blew out a breath. “You seem…” 

“What?” she said, angrily. “Go ahead, say it.” 

“You’re not okay,” he said, simply. 

“Yeah, and whose fault is that,” she snapped. She knew she was being unfair, but she couldn't help it. 

He didn’t answer. 

“Just forget it,” she said, and then she started to walk past him, toward the filling station next door. 

“Don’t walk away from me,” he said. 

“Fuck you.” 

He grabbed at her arm as she passed him, hung onto it, stopping her. She looked down at it— his hand wrapped around her bicep. No sickness. No pain. If anything, it felt…. 

“Can we just talk?” he said, and he let go of her arm. “Please? I’m just… I’m trying to understand what’s going on here….” 

“Are you kidding?” she said, turning to face him fully. She could feel her cheeks heating up. “Are you really that stupid? I mean, isn’t it obvious?” She hadn’t wanted to do this, but now it was all spilling out, her voice getting shrill. “I’m just fucked now, for the rest of my life, right? While you’re free to do… _whatever_. Be with me, don’t be with me, it’s all the same, right?” 

She was crying, and she could see that he was looking back at her, stricken, and her voice became even more heated, almost hysterical. 

“And if that wasn’t bad enough, apparently now I’ve got this problem, that if anyone else does so much as _touch_ me— any other _man_, I should say— I’m gonna fucking puke my guts out. So yeah. That’s your awesome gift to me. Thanks a bunch, _soulmate_. Welcome to the rest of my life. I’m not meant for anyone.” 

She spun around again on the gravel, facing away from him, but she wasn’t trying to get away anymore. She just stood there, in the parking lot, arms wrapped around herself, trying to get a grip, because she was doing it again: making a spectacle of herself, and she hated it, _hated_ behaving this way, and why was the Universe so fucking _cruel_… 

“Hey.” 

She heard his voice, soft, behind her. The crunch of his boots on the gravel, as he approached. “Hey,” he said again. 

She felt his hands— one flesh, one metal— gently come to rest on her upper arms, and somehow the contact made it impossible for her to hold it back anymore, and her head dipped, her chest caving in as she gave over to it, the sobs wracking her body. She’d never cried so much in her life as she had in the past week, and she hated it. 

She turned around then, without stepping back, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world as she let him take her in his arms, holding her safe in the warmth of his body as she cried it out, feeling like a fool, but unable to deny the way his touch, his smell— even the sound of his breathing— were all working like some kind of magic balm to soothe her nerves. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he said, and the rumble of his voice, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the feel of his hand, smoothing across her back— it was all working on her like a drug, making her want to stay there. Never leave the safety of his arms. She was sick of fighting it. It felt good. She needed to feel good. 

He leaned his head down, and she felt him kiss the crown of her head, and it made her curl her fingers into his shirt— into the meat of his back, where she was hanging on, her arms wrapped around him. 

“Come on,” he said, his voice quiet, meant only for her. “Let me take you home.” 

She didn’t answer at first, even though she knew what the answer would be. It was like part of her still needed to catch up with it. It already felt so good, so right, that some holdout part of her brain didn't want to believe it. Thought it had to be a trick. 

She sniffled, rubbed at her runny nose with the back of her hand. He was right; she was a complete wreck. 

“Gimme a minute to tell Kim,” she said. 

* * *

They didn’t speak again; didn’t need to. 

After convincing Kim that she was fine— safe getting home with John— she simply followed him across the lot to where his bike was parked. Silently accepted the helmet from him, put it on. Climbed on behind him, awkwardly. Adjusted herself, planting her shoes on the footpegs, and then leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him to hang on. All of it felt right. 

It was like a dream, clasping herself to him as they sped through the desert night, nobody else around: just the two of them, and the air and the sand and the stars, and she wanted to tell him to keep going… to drive on, never looking back… 

She waited, off to the side while he checked the bike and the helmet in, and then grabbed onto his hand wordlessly when he reached for her. Walked with him to the elevators and rode down to B3. Didn’t let go until they reached his door, and he opened it for her, let her inside. 

She sat down on the edge of his bed, and he kneeled down in front of her, unlaced and removed her sneakers for her, and then did the same for his boots. She watched him as he carefully removed his prosthetic arm and set it down on the desk, and she reached under the back of her T-shirt and unhooked her bra, and then threaded the straps out through her sleeves so she could pull it off and drop it to the floor. She didn’t bother undressing any further— just lay down on her left side, facing away from the wall, her arms bent up in front of her chest. 

The mattress dipped as he crawled in to join her, laying his own body down behind her. She slid back into him at the same time that he wrapped his flesh arm around her, pulling her smoothly into his chest so that they were spooned together. 

She let out a sigh, feeling everything inside begin to unfurl, like a fist that was finally relaxing. She didn’t know the plan; didn’t need one. If they were going to sleep, or talk, or just lie there breathing together— it didn’t matter. She closed her eyes and let her hand find his, where it lay resting against her, just below the curve of her breast, and she covered it with her own. 

Like everything else, it felt right… like she’d been here before, was meant to be… a full-body memory that’d been imagined and long-forgotten, but remembered now, like it’d ever been so… 

He breathed deeply, pulling her a little closer, and she knew she would never let go… 

* * *

She didn’t know how long they’d slept, but she could tell it wasn’t yet morning. Everything was very still and quiet and soft, like she was floating in a warm cloud. She knew, somehow, that he was awake, though he hadn’t moved. His arm was still clasped around her, though they’d switched the position of their hands: his was now lying on top of hers, his fingers slotted loosely into the spaces in between. 

He knew she’d awoken too, because after a few minutes he pulled in a breath to speak, and then she heard the low rumble of his voice, just behind her right ear. 

“I don’t care about the words.” 

It was a romantic thing to say, but part of her still bristled at it, even now, in this protected place. 

“That’s easy to say, when you’re not the one who’s gonna hurt…” 

He was quiet for a moment, and she just listened to the steady sound of his breathing. “No,” he finally said. “It ain’t. It ain’t easy. I don’t even remember—” He didn’t finish. Whatever he’d been about to say got left behind, as a different kind of frustration took over: 

“Fuck’s sake— for all I know, you _did_ say ‘em. Maybe you did. Maybe that’s why I’ve been feelin’ so fucked up all the time… havin’ these crazy dreams, all these messed-up memories that don’t make any sense…” 

She shifted against him, and then turned herself over carefully, still inside the protective curve of his arm, so she could see him, face-to-face. “What do you mean?” she said, and she could feel her heart pounding, as her brain processed what he’d said— the idea that there could even be a ‘_maybe_’… “I thought— You told me…” 

He was so close. She could really see him now; wasn’t afraid to look anymore. The light was poor in the room, but she could see that his eyes were truly beautiful: silvery blue, with little flecks of a deeper shade that matched the thin ring that surrounded them. His eyelashes were dark, like his hair. He had prominent cheekbones— almost a delicate structure, paired with the strong line of his jaw. 

Her arms were bent up against her chest, sandwiched between them, and she unfolded one of them to reach up and carefully lay her palm against his face. Felt the gentle scrape of his day-old beard, listened to the sigh of his breath as his lips parted. She could tell how much he liked it— just that simple, voluntary touch. 

“I told you what I know,” he said, his voice dropping, maybe to match the quiet feeling of her hand on his face. “Or at least, what’s gotta be true. S’the only thing that makes sense, with the things I can do. The people who found me… they tested me for everything else. I ain’t a mutant, or—” 

She was running her fingers up the scratchy stubble on his jaw, going against the grain, and then back down again… “But if you can’t remember, then—” 

“There ain’t no other way to explain it,” he said. “With the things I can do. The strength, the healing… Weird stuff, like the drinkin’… or bein’ able to jump from a high place, without gettin’ hurt…” 

She dragged her thumb through that dent in his chin, the same one she’d felt the night before… It was different now. She felt like it belonged to her. She smiled a little, made a joke. “Kinda sounds like Captain America.” 

He went quiet— had an odd look on his face, like he was far away. 

“What is it?” she said, finally dropping her hand. 

“I keep dreamin’ about him.” 

“About Captain America?” 

“Yeah. It’s weird. It’s like he trying’ to tell me somethin’…” 

Their legs were stretched out, parallel, and she moved a little, shifting her hips, and pressed a knee into the seam between his thighs, trying to slot herself in between. They were both still wearing pants, and even though they were soft— both of them in knits— there was too much in the way. She wanted to take them off, to lie with him skin-to-skin. 

“My friend Jane,” she said. “We were talking and… I mean, she wasn’t completely serious, but she said maybe you’re a double or something.” She felt stupid, saying it out loud: like a baby who still believed in Santa Claus. “I mean, it’s possible, right?” 

“It don’t even matter to me anymore,” he said softly. “What difference does it make _why_, if…” 

His lips were so close. They’d felt so soft, the other night, when she’d touched them with her fingertips. She remembered how he’d kept trying to kiss her, and it was astounding to her now, that she’d been able to resist. He had a mouth that was made to be kissed… 

“You really don’t remember your words?” she asked. “At all?” 

“See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he said, and he shifted a little, trying to prop himself up on his side. It was awkward, without an arm there to support his weight. “Ain’t ever had a single glimmer of… and then you—” 

His speech was disjointed, like only half of his thoughts were making it past his lips, and she could see that he was frustrated by it. He tried again: still fumbling, fragmented… struggling to explain: 

“Ever since you— I have these— they’re almost like visions or somethin’…” 

He moved the one pillow beneath the stump of his left shoulder, bunching it up to fill in the empty space as he leaned into it, and then he moved his right hand to hover above the place where his bicep would have been. 

“Think they were like that,” he said, his fingers curved in a C shape, like he was wrapping them around the phantom limb. “Going around, like…” 

“Like an armband?” she said. “Do you— are you remembering?” Her heart was pounding, not sure she wanted the answer. 

He shook his head then, and dropped his hand. “Was just a dream,” he said. “Might just be makin’ it up. I couldn’t read the words… woke up, before I could see…” 

He was far away for a moment— maybe still trying to remember. She could tell he was bothered by it, in spite of the way he’d suddenly downplayed it. 

“I wish you could’ve seen what they were,” she said, and it seemed to snap him out of it. 

“You were there,” he said, and he was looking straight at her again. 

“Yeah?” she said, and she propped up her head on her hand, her elbow pressing into the mattress. Smiled at him, in a sleepy sort of way. “What was I doing?” 

His eyes moved over her face, and his own features softened— the corner of his mouth pulling up just a tick— and though it was a subtle expression, something stirred inside her, like a spreading warmth, because it was as foreign on him as it was beautiful: that hint of a smile… the first she’d seen… 

“You were…” He didn’t seem to know how to answer, was maybe hedging a little. “You were happy,” he said, his voice soft. 

“Yeah?” she said again, this time more playfully. “How come?” 

His face fell a little then, back to his usual solemn self. “I don’t know what all you’ve heard about me,” he said. 

She didn’t understand the sudden change of topic, but she went with it, wanting to keep him talking. 

“I don’t know anything about you,” she said, with honesty. “And anyway, I make up my own mind.” She paused, thought about it. “But if there’s something you think I should know, I’m listening.” 

“Only things I know for sure,” he said, “are from a year ago, going forward. Before that, I can only guess. Draw conclusions, based on what they told me, or… the way I am.” 

He was sinking back down so he could stretch out fully again, on his left side, and he was nudging the pillow up with his stump, so he could rest his head on it. Once he was down, he used his hand to adjust it, moving it so that he was only using the left side of it: leaving the rest of it open, like an invitation. 

She mirrored him, moving in a little closer, and rested her head on the other half of the pillow. There was a pull to him, like she wanted to lay her hand on his chest, tunnel up under his shirt, feel him with the kind of affection she’d denied him the last time. She didn’t want to push it—presume anything— so she just tucked her arms against her own chest again, and watched his face as he spoke. 

“All I know, is I musta been some kinda soldier. Like… special forces or something. Somethin’ bad. Got captured, tortured or…” 

His eyes lost focus for a few seconds, and then he came back. “They don’t know who I am, where I came from, who I served with— nothin’. It’s fuckin’ crazy. Like it was all erased or somethin’, and not just in my head, but… everywhere.” 

He paused and said, “Unless they’re all lyin’ to me.” 

She’d listened quietly, not interrupting… trying to maintain eye contact, even though he didn’t return it. 

“You ever try to research it? On your own?” 

“Course,” he said. “Kinda hard to, though, when all you got to go on is _John_… and a history with some kinda combat…” 

“That sounds scary,” she said, and then quickly clarified: “Not _you_. I mean… the not-knowing. Wondering why— what would make whoever… it’s like there’s some big secret, or—” 

He looked at her sharply: “You shouldn’t be so quick to—” And then he softened again; said, “Maybe I _am_ scary. Or was.” 

“I know how to do things,” he said, rushing on. “I know about guns and knives, and a lot of other things. I got about twenty-seven different ways to kill a man with my bare hands, if I want to. I have dreams sometimes… memories of doing things. Bad shit I don’t wanna think about. Don’t even know if it’s real or not.” 

He closed his eyes for a few seconds and then opened them, staring at her hands, where they still lay tucked against her chest. 

“Sometimes I get real fucked up. Can’t move. Can’t speak. It’s like— I can’t think… or maybe it’s that I can’t _stop_ thinkin’.” 

She was quiet, waiting to see if he was done. 

“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry you… sorry you got stuck with me. It ain’t fair.” He still wouldn’t meet her eyes. 

“You said all that stuff like… like it’s a list of disqualifications or something,” she said. 

He finally looked at her, and he almost seemed scared. “Ain’t it?” 

She slid herself over, taking up the little bit of space that’d been left between them. He was right there: just a breath away, watching her, and she instinctively reached out to him, just as she’d done before. Put her hand on his face, ran her fingertips along the line of his cheekbone, and he closed his eyes, almost leaning into her touch. 

“No,” she said, answering him. “Not for me.” 

He didn’t seem convinced, so she elaborated, even as her fingers continued to explore him, tracing up to his temple, across the arch of his dark eyebrow and back… 

She felt like she was discovering all the little parts of him— all the details that made up the whole— and she wanted to see everything. Wanted to strip him down and learn it all: even the bad stuff that frightened him. 

“I mean, I’m glad you’re telling me,” she said. “That stuff’s important to know, if… but it’s not— I mean, none of that’s a deal-breaker for me.” She was still touching his face as she spoke— had made it down to his lips, and they were so soft, just as she remembered, and she wanted to draw her fingers away— to lean in and replace them with her mouth… 

“I can’t even think of anything that would— I mean, unless you don’t like girls or something…” She let her hand fall away then, tucking it back into her chest. 

She was grinning, biting her lip— teasing him— and he almost smiled again, and she counted it as a victory. 

“Christ, doll,” he said, and there was a wryness there— an echo of some lost sense of humor, maybe even a flirtatious nature… “If you got doubts about that, after last night… guess I’m even rustier than I thought…” 

She sobered then. “I’m sorry about— for what— for using you like that. I had no right, I—” 

“Hey,” he said, stopping her. “It’s okay.” His eyes were steady on her now, wanting her to believe. “I was… I mean it was…” He dropped his gaze for a second, trying to find the words. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it with everything in her. “And I’m sorry I left like that. I was scared…” 

“I know,” he said, and then he looked at her again. “I was scared too. God, Sweetheart…” 

“I should have stayed,” she said, and she was almost tearing up, and part of her couldn’t believe they’d so suddenly veered into it: into acknowledging what’d happened between them. 

“Look,” he said. “Even if— and I don’t even know anymore, but… even if you didn’t say my words.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I wanna try this.” 

He’d seemed careful about physical contact with her— hadn’t tried to touch her, other than the way he’d pulled her protectively into his body to sleep. As much as he’d clearly liked feeling her hand on his face, he hadn’t made any moves of his own, hadn’t returned the gestures of affection. Now he reached out his hand and touched her cheek lightly with the backs of his curved fingers: tentative, asking… moved them up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, like he needed an excuse for being there, and his eyes were moving all over her face, waiting for her to acknowledge what he’d said. 

She could feel he was about to retreat— to take his hand back, and maybe the words, too, thinking he’d gone too far— and she moved her hand up to gently wrap her fingers around his wrist, to keep him there. The tacit reassurance emboldened him, and he slid his fingers further into her hair, curving around to cradle the back of her head, and she could feel it, the magnetic force that was pulling them closer together, and she wanted to kiss him so badly… 

His eyes dropped to her lips, his breath coming heavy, and when their eyes met again, there was a kind of despair in his face, a desperate yearning that she already knew, because she’d been feeling it for days— and then he said it again, like a plea: 

“Can we try this?” 

She decided for both of them, leaning up just enough to brush her lips against his, just feeling the softness, the rush of his breath, her eyes falling shut, awash in sensation— the warmth of his face, the smell of his skin… the thick, heavy flavor of the air they were already sharing— and she could feel it everywhere, like electricity… 

And then his breath hitched, and he made a little sound in his throat and she felt his tongue touch her bottom lip, just before his mouth closed around it like he was tasting it, and then he shifted and did the same on top, his lips parting at the end, almost shaking, just holding there, breathing, his hand still cradling her head, and when she tilted her chin to answer him, asking for more, he abandoned his caution, holding her steady with his hand as he pressed into her with a moan, kissing her with a hunger that took her breath away… 

She was trying to twine her legs around him, pulling him closer as he groaned into her mouth, his hand sliding around to her jaw, holding it as he plied her lips open to drink from her, caressing her mouth deeply with his own, and when he broke away to breathe, staring at her, almost panting, she could have cried from the relief of it: of being able to do this— to give into it, finally… 

And when she looked at his face— a reflection of a heart as grateful, and gone, and full of longing as her own— she gasped in recognition and said, “_Baby_,” so softly: almost a plea… and it was an odd thing to say to a big strong man who’d just told her that he could kill her with his bare hands… but just like everything else when it came to them, it was instinctive and honest and right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	14. Chapter 14

She kissed him again and again— like she couldn’t get enough: like she was dying of thirst— and he was responding in kind, his hand smoothing down her body, pulling her in closer as their legs entwined, both of them gasping a little as they tried to breathe in the breaks in between. 

She hoped he could feel the change— the difference: that she wanted this… wanted _him_… was all-in… 

That she was _choosing_ him, either way— confirmation be damned. 

She’d felt it as soon as she’d kissed him: the last pin sliding into place, to throw the bolt. She was open now, and there was no turning back. She was showing him what she wanted, and it was simple: she wanted everything. And to give him everything in return. To take care of him. To love him. 

She was mostly acting on instinct; when she’d called him _baby_, it’d just spilled out of her— as natural as breathing. It was the right word: both bare and tender, its promise implicit— a fierce kind of pledge— and she’d seen his eyes change when he heard it. 

“Where are they,” he breathed, as he pulled back, his eyes running over her face. His skin was flushed, his lips wet from kissing her. 

The question seemed to come out of nowhere, and she didn’t understand. 

“What do you mean?” she said, still staring at his lips. “Who?” And she couldn’t even pause that long, to wait for his reply: had to lean in and taste him again, run her tongue along the soft, red flesh of his lower lip, her hand on his face, holding him… 

She wanted to _inhale_ him, and he made a vulnerable sound, his eyes fluttering shut as he let her do it— let her suck slowly on his lip like it was something savory… 

“Your words,” he said, almost whispering, when she let go. “Didn’t see ‘em when… the other night…” 

She tensed up a little— she couldn’t help it— and she knew that he felt it. He retreated a little— pulled back just a touch… 

“M’sorry,” he said. “You don’t—” 

“Here,” she said, cutting him off. She moved her hand to slide against her left breast, through the fabric of her T-shirt. She was still braless underneath, and she knew he could see the outline of her nipple through the material. “They’re here.” 

His eyes followed the movement of her hand and she could see something tender in his expression, like he was feeling soft about it, just knowing they were really there, even if he couldn’t see them. 

She had a feeling he wouldn’t ask— that in a weird kind of way, he was old-fashioned: a gentleman— so she pushed herself up to kneeling, folding her legs under herself as she sat back on her heels. “You wanna see?” 

He was sitting up too, pushing up with his one hand. She could tell he was nervous— maybe about to tell her to stop: that she didn’t have to… 

She was nervous too, but she wanted to. Wanted him to see. 

The nerves weren’t only about the words: she didn’t let people see her bare breasts, with only a few exceptions. Jane had seen everything, as had a couple of other close friends. Her mother. A few doctors. But Darcy never displayed them to men, as much as they seemed to desire it. 

It wasn’t about shame: she loved her body, and she knew her boobs were top-notch. It was just too personal— too private— in a way that words on a wrist or a leg or even a butt-cheek just couldn’t compare to. She always kept her bra on when she was with a man, even during sex. She didn’t want to share that part of herself with a person who didn’t deserve it. 

Being braless when she’d gone to him—the first time— had been something new already, even though she’d kept her shirt on. But she’d been out of her mind— and even then, she’d never intended to let him see. 

This time it was different. The simple act of taking her bra off to lie down next to him, the night before, had been a big deal. It was something special to her, unbeknownst to him— something she’d done because… because of this. 

Because it was _him_. Because it was time. 

She crossed her arms over her stomach to grasp the hem of the shirt, hesitated for just a moment, and then committed: lifted the shirt up and over her head, getting it all the way off as quickly as possible, even as it got stuck a little on her long hair. She tossed it behind her, somewhere near the foot of the bed… and though she’d undoubtedly already flashed him, she instinctively pressed her forearms against her breasts, covering herself up again. 

Her heart was pounding, and she closed her eyes, trying to reel her nerves back in, and she could both hear and feel him moving, kneeling just across from her, and when she opened her eyes, he wasn’t looking anywhere near her chest— he was looking at her face. 

“I know you already seen it,” he said, “But…” 

He moved his hand to the bottom-left hem of his own shirt and started to pull it off— a little more awkward for him, than it’d been for her: he raised his left shoulder, lifting the remains of his arm upward, and he was able to get the shirt up and off it one-handed, and from there, over his head, and then the rest was easy. He threw the shirt aside, and then she could see it all. 

As he’d said, it was nothing she hadn’t already seen the night she’d gone to him, because he’d been shirtless then too. But just like with the bra, it was different now— now that she was level-headed, and there wasn’t the haze of sick-feeling, uncontrolled _need_ blurring everything between them… 

He was beautiful: lean, yet obviously strong, a light scattering of dark hair across his chest, his nipples a darker shade of pink than hers. He was fit and healthy and she already wanted to touch. But she knew he hadn’t done this to show her his muscles. 

They’d never talked about his arm, never acknowledged it— other than his showing her where he’d seen his words, in the dream… or her demand, the other night, that he pick her up one-armed— asking if he was capable. 

She was ashamed, thinking back on it: how he could have felt it as a taunt. Maybe a part of her had meant it to be. 

She’d been so cruel… 

She knew what he was doing now, and maybe she didn’t deserve it— didn’t deserve his instinct to make her more comfortable with her own vulnerability, when she’d completely failed to do the same for him. Apparently, he wasn’t interested in what was fair, when it came to her— wasn’t keeping score: he just did what his heart told him to do. 

She was still hiding her chest, keeping her arms up, even as her eyes moved to the stump of his left arm, and the odd little peg of metal sticking out of the bone where his bicep should be. 

“Does it hurt?” she asked. She wanted to reach out and touch it. 

“Nah,” he said, and he instinctively moved his shoulder a little, as though to demonstrate it was okay. “It was… confusing, when I first woke up,” he said. “Couldn’t remember what happened, how I lost it. Still can’t. I guess that’s… not unusual, for people who’ve had a… a traumatic loss. And the— whoever messed with it before, they weren’t too…” 

He paused, looked down at his shoulder as he ran his right hand over it, squeezing the flesh a little, like he was massaging a sore muscle. “They didn’t do a very good job,” he said. “Probably wasn’t a priority.” 

“That was one of the good things ‘bout bein’ found by these guys,” he continued. “Got lucky, I guess. Was one of the reasons I agreed to give this job a try. Got the surgery for free, access to this kinda prosthesis…” 

“What even is it?” she said, looking at the metal rod. “I’ve never seen one like that.” 

“Titanium,” he said. “Goin’ right into my bone… what’s left of it, anyway. Ain’t even approved here yet… I think they’re only doin’ it in Sweden, maybe Germany. That’s why I said I was lucky; SHIELD’s got a different set of rules or somethin’. And with my… you know. My enhancements. Don’t have to worry ‘bout the stuff most people do with this kind of fixture. Infections, that sort of thing.” 

“And it’s… better?” she said. “Better than…” She meant a standard socket-based prosthesis, like she’d seen on other amputees, but she didn’t know the terminology. 

“For me, yeah,” he said. “Makes the movement a bit more natural, when I have somethin’ attached to it. And the tech department, they added servos and electronics in the arm, and sensors in the puck… so I can control the hand, using myoelectrics…” 

“I don’t know what that is,” she said. 

“I use the muscles in the… in my residual limb, to control it,” he said. 

“Seriously?” she said, legitimately impressed. “God, I had no idea that was even possible… that’s— it’s pretty amazing.” 

He looked down. “Shoulda seen what I was usin’ at first, before the surgery.” He shook his head. “I mean, I’m glad you didn’t. It’s hard enough—” 

He stopped talking when she reached out and gently lay her hand on his chest— she didn’t know why she’d done it, exactly. She didn’t want him to think she pitied him: she didn’t. She just wanted him to know that she was… there. That she saw him. That to her, his arm wasn’t a flaw. That even as she acknowledged that it made his life more difficult, to her it was just… like another thing to write up in a description, along with eye color and height, and… 

He was holding her eyes, and she could see that he got all that: got the message. 

She also realized that in placing her hand on his chest, she’d revealed part of her chest, even though the left side— the side with the words— was still covered up by her other arm, the hand in a loose fist. He wasn’t looking; not yet… 

She swallowed and then slowly lowered her other hand, revealing herself— retracting the one on his chest as well, until both hands were resting loosely in her lap, like she was a nervous model, posing for a portrait. 

She watched as his eyes dropped, traveling over her skin to the side with the writing on it… 

He let out a little breath… 

“They’re so…” His voice was quiet, as he tried to express himself. “Ain’t never seen… most of ‘em are so plain, or—” 

She knew what he meant: the way they followed the natural curve of her body, and the little flourish at the end— her words were _pretty_. Like something you’d have done in a shop, in a sort of defiance of whatever Fate had handed you. Some people’s words looked like they’d fallen onto them randomly, like a stray piece of newsprint that’d drifted out of the back of a garbage truck… 

She could see him swallow, and he moved a little closer, tilting his head, maybe trying to pick out the letters as they wrapped around her— a difficult task, with some of them upside-down as they wound beneath the full curve of her breast. 

She tried not to give into the instinct to hide again, under his scrutiny; she knew he wasn’t looking at her in a lascivious way; it was clear he was focused on the words— seeing the proof of their connection. Or at least, of hers to him. 

She looked down at herself, using her opposite hand to cup her breast, pulling it toward her sternum, so he could more easily see the words along the sides and the bottom. She was shaking a little, even as she felt some relief, now that the scariest part was over. 

“It starts up here,” she said, twisting her upper body, so he could see: showed him where the word “_My_” was clearly visible, just below her armpit. 

He was lifting his hand, wanting to touch, and he looked up to check in with her. “Can I—” 

She nodded, and she scooted a little closer at the same time that he did, watched as he gently placed his fingertips under her armpit, on the very first letter: the big letter M in the word “_My_”. He feathered it with the rough pads of his fingers and then shifted his body around so he could see— so he could trace his way along, reading each word silently as he followed the path with his fingers, his lips moving quietly as he read it out: “_My ma always told me_…” 

She was pulling up on herself so he could read the part along the bottom, and then switched hands, still holding her boob out of the way, so he could see where they traveled back up on the other side, near her midline: “…_there ain’t no shortage of shit_…” 

“Kinda funny, ain’t it?” he said softly. “Somethin’ so coarse, done up so pretty…” 

She smiled, because it was more clear than ever how the words were so perfectly _him_: a man who, himself, was at once coarse and pretty. 

“I love it,” she said. “The clash of that. I always have.” 

He looked up to flash the briefest of smiles at her, almost shy, and she finally just let her hand fall away— realized that she wasn’t self-conscious anymore, not really. They were just doing this together, checking out each other’s stuff, and she was having flashes of childhood: _I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours_, and there was something so pure about it. 

She could remember the days of playing with the neighborhood boys, when they’d all been equal— just a bunch of kids, tearing around on bikes and climbing trees… poking things with sticks… carrying home a dead bird in a shoe box, to perform a solemn burial in someone’s back yard… Learning the world, investigating… partners in discovery, allies against the dangers around them… 

That was before bodies swelled and changed and everything got complicated. Before people learned to lie or to hide… to manipulate, and peddle your wares. To use or be used, as you awaited your fate… 

She’d thought there’d be no going back… finding that unspoiled energy again— a boy to run and play with… exploring the world, together, as equals… 

Although she’d hoped… 

Crazy as it seemed, she could see all of that: the possibility of it, with this man. With John. Whether or not she was really his soulmate. It was like the instinct she’d had on the bike: wanting to tell him to keep going… to keep driving, just the two of them… breaking a new path, going their own way… 

It was like he’d said: what difference did it make _why_ at this point, if the feelings were already there? It was just up to her to trust it, knowing there were no guarantees. Even bonded pairs didn’t have guarantees. People had accidents; people died. Nothing was certain for anybody. 

He was reading the rest now: the part that curved back onto the fleshy soft skin of her breast, and by the time he got to the end, he was just moving his fingertips gently back and forth on the last few words: a looping, beautiful, “…_in this world_,” just above the edge of her areola, where the skin transitioned to a silky, delicate pink. 

Something shifted— a bloom of arousal that pulled on her from deep inside… but then his hand fell away as he sat back, his eyes staring at nothing— maybe lost somewhere inside his own head. 

“You okay?” she said. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s so… I mean, I knew that— I never thought…” His brow wrinkled and for a moment he seemed so far away. “I didn’t—” 

He was doing that disjointed thing again, his phrases like the broken pieces of some smashed-up conversation. 

“But it’s real, isn’t it,” he said quietly, finally making sense. “It’s real.” 

“Yeah,” she said, her voice breaking a little, incredibly moved by his reaction: it was everything she’d ever hoped for, and more… 

His eyes refocused, and he looked at her and said, “C’mere”— a tender kind of sound. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around one of her wrists, like he was going to tug on it. He said it again: “C’mere.” 

She moved toward him, letting him pull her in— climbed right into his lap, their bare chests bumping together, her face just above his as she was lifted up on his thighs. His hand dropped to her waist as she rested hers on his broad shoulders. 

The last time they’d been in this position, he’d been pressed up inside her, and another wave of arousal roiled through her, just from the memory of it. She knew he had to be thinking of it too… 

It felt good, the skin-to-skin contact, and she ran her palms down to his chest and back up again, closing her eyes, listening to his sigh… 

“Wish I had both my arms,” he said quietly. “Wish I could hold you right. I’m sorry I—” 

She stopped him with a kiss— opened her eyes and leaned in, cutting through the few inches of air between them, her hand coming up to touch his face as she took his lips, going slowly this time, her eyes falling shut once again, so she could block out everything but the feel of his mouth, his tongue sliding together with hers, the taste of him… 

She moved her other hand up too, both of them on his face now, bracketing his mouth, feeling the rough prickle of his beard, and he was mostly just breathing, soft and open as he let her kiss him, a quiet sound escaping him when she rocked herself against him below, and she could feel that he was getting hard… 

His hand slid up from her waist, traveling up her side until it stopped right next to her breast, feeling the soft, curving side of it, and then he moved the hand over, his big palm covering her, just feeling her shape, and then his thumb found her nipple, brushing against it, and the electricity of it made her break the kiss, her forehead leaning against his, their mouths still just a whisper away, breathing together… 

“I take it back,” he said, his voice low as he continued to stroke her skin gently. “Maybe it’s good I lost my arm…” 

He was circling her nipple with his thumb, slowly, making it hard, the skin around it pebbling up, and she almost whimpered from the exquisite sensation, simple as it was— awash in the pleasure of it— and she wondered if he could feel how wet she already was, where she was pressing against him through the layers of their clothing down below… 

“Why,” she said— the only words she could manage, with the way he was touching her, the feeling so raw and sensual that it was making her hips move instinctively, as though he were working a spell on her— and she leaned in for another kiss, their breathing picking up… 

“If they were your words on me,” he said, when she released his lips, and his hand dropped down, curving around to her ass, pulling her more snugly into him, holding her there as she rocked into him again… “Then you already said ‘em and the deal’s done…” 

She dropped her forehead to his shoulder, her arms sliding down his back, feeling the play of his muscles as he pushed his own hips up, just a little, letting her feel him, showing her how much he wanted her… 

“But why—” she said, breathing heavy now, and she didn’t understand, didn’t get what he was driving at. 

“If they weren’t yours,” he said, “Then I don’t want it.” 

She’d lifted her head, was gazing at him with heavy-lidded eyes, her mouth still open, her breathing getting quicker, more needy… 

“I don’t want ‘em on me,” he said, looking back at her. “If they ain’t yours.” 

“_Baby_,” she whispered… that word again, involuntary… and it felt so right— like she was speaking her truth— and she was getting a little light-headed from it, from the feelings stirring inside, the building ache, the pull she was feeling to be with him… 

“I wanna feel you,” she said, wanting to be clear about it this time— to talk to him, make sure he knew exactly how she felt, what she wanted… “Wanna be with you…” 

She slipped out of his lap, feeling limp and warm— boneless— like she’d just climbed out of a long, hot bath, and she was leaning back, peeling her pants down, feeling traces of the time before, in that there wasn’t any question: she knew what she wanted, what she needed. How she craved the connection. But it was different this time… she wasn’t taking. She was _asking_. And he was saying yes… 

He was pushing his own pants off, boxers too, and once he got everything off, he lay down beside her, both of them bare, their legs twining together easily, automatically, as he began to kiss her again. 

She could feel herself dissolving in the sensation… the soft, wet press of his lips and tongue, his taste already so familiar… the warmth she felt from the nearness of his body… all of it was like being wrapped in a comfort she’d longed for her whole life… 

She could feel that he wanted to roll atop her, slot his body in between, but without his left arm to support him it would’ve been tricky, and he must’ve had the same thought… 

“Maybe I shoulda put my arm on,” he murmured, in a pause between kisses, and then he smiled a little, against her lips, almost making a joke: “I ain’t stoppin’ now…” 

She smiled back, but her mouth quickly went slack again as he kissed down her body, his lips moving over her collarbones, and then lower, finding her breast, the dark scroll of her words, and when he took her nipple in his mouth, she arched against him, gasping out a shuddering moan— sounding like she’d reached her end already, because the sensation was incredible… 

She could feel him smiling again, right against her skin, enjoying her response, the sounds she was making as he tasted her skin, and then he made a little noise himself as he pulled on her nipple again, sucking on it gently before letting it go. 

He moved back up to her mouth and she reached a hand down between them, finding him, feeling him, and he didn’t need much— was already more than ready— and it was like a seamless segue into pulling him toward her, opening her legs to make room for his body, and he nudged himself over a bit, supporting himself with his forearm, letting her hang onto him until he worked his way into her, a little at a time… 

It was hard to believe they’d already been together— that he’d been inside her before— because something about this felt almost numinous, sacred: like it was the first time they were doing this… and in a way, maybe it was. 

He didn’t move at all at first— just dropped his head down once he’d made it all the way in, pushing on her a little at the end, and she wrapped her legs around him, holding him there, sighing from the relief of it… 

She could hear his heavy breathing, and her eyes were already stinging from how good it felt, just to have him there— in her, around her, the smell of him everywhere… knowing that unlike before, she could let herself linger— sink in and drown in it, throwing off her shields… 

“Kiss me,” she whispered, and he turned his face to nuzzle her, nudging up on her jaw to make room for his mouth, and she could feel the rasp of his beard on her skin, the heat of his breath, as he kissed and tasted the sweat on her neck. 

He pushed against her again, like he wanted to be closer, though his hips were already flush against her, already so close that she could almost feel the tip of him brushing her, all the way up inside. He pulled out a little, rolling a little more on top of her then, finding an angle he could work, supporting himself so he could kiss her mouth— his lips soft at first, and then with a greater need, like she owned the air he needed to breathe, and he finally began to move… 

And it was just like her vision from before: the one she’d pushed away, the first time— refused, knowing it’d be too emotional— and she’d been right, because it was almost overwhelming… only now she welcomed it— wanted it more than anything. 

Maybe it would have surprised her before: what John Brennan had been hiding beneath his quiet, closed-off exterior, letting nobody see the heat that lay simmering beneath the surface. Maybe he hadn’t even known himself. But he was giving it to her now, pouring it into her like a goddamned work of art, with no set rhythm, no pattern, no performance: just a raw and devastating storm of feeling, and she lay herself bare to it, grateful— let him burn it into her, as he pushed himself deep inside on every wave, the weight of his body spreading out her hips as he pressed into her bones… 

She could feel him trembling, both of them sweating, and it was building something bigger between them: a deep, needful pressure, and before long she was shaking with it herself, unashamed by her own desperate noises as he pulled them both to pieces… 

Nobody had ever made love to her like this before… nobody else could have. 

She wanted to say it: wanted to tell him… the truth she was feeling, not afraid of it anymore… but the words were impossible. Speech was impossible. 

It was a raw and shuddering wave, and it took them both… 

She was curling her fingers into his back as she held on, clinging to him, every press of his body bringing them closer, tightening, and she almost couldn’t breathe… 

When it finally tore through her, her hips arching to meet it, she shivered around him with a cry— clasping him, pulling on him… 

His own breathing sped up, out of sync with his slowing, desperate thrusts… until he dropped his forehead to her shoulder, and with a sound like a sob, pressed in deep and held there, pulsing inside… 

Everything stopped for a few seconds, and then the sound came rushing back in… both of them trying to catch their breath… 

She was blinking, trying to stop the tears from coming, and she could feel the throb of her heartbeat, pounding in her head and chest… 

“You okay?” he said. He’d lifted his head from her shoulder— was looking down at her, still panting a little, as beautiful-looking as he was wrecked, all red and sweaty… “You okay?” 

She couldn’t answer; couldn’t respond with words— just nodded, so he’d know she hadn’t had a stroke… 

She breathed and felt a few little trickles of tears slip out and track down her temples, and his expression softened… 

He leaned in to kiss her, a quiet sound of tenderness escaping him as he did it, and then he lowered himself down carefully, still joined to her, neither of them wanting to separate yet… 

His eyes were moving back and forth between hers, and she still couldn’t speak, but it was like he could hear her anyway, because he swallowed and said, “Me too, sweetheart. Me too…” 

He was softening, slipping out, and he eased off, shakily rolled onto his back. She followed, curling herself around him, resting her head on his chest as his arm slipped around her. 

They didn’t say another word; didn’t need to. Just lay there, spent, until their breathing slowed down and they drifted off, content to just be there, together. 

* * *

It didn’t feel like a dream, standing there in the forest— all the colors too vivid, the smell of the damp leaves so fertile beneath his feet… filling his senses with the certainty that he was _there_. It was real. Or it had been, in another time… another life. 

He buttoned up his pants and reached into his shirt pocket for the rumpled little packet of Gauloises, shook a cigarette out, and stuck it between his lips. The matches were damp, but he finally got one that worked, and he lit up, shaking out the flame as he sucked up a lungful of sweet relief. 

He’d gotten the smokes from a pretty little gal in the last village they’d passed through; he’d winked and smiled at her as they’d trudged by— no time to stop— and he’d heard her call after him: 

_Hé! Beau mec!_

He’d turned and she’d tossed him the little packet, and he’d neatly caught it in his left hand, and the smile she’d flashed him had been almost as good as the gift of the cigarettes… 

Could you have memories inside of a dream? 

Someone else was calling to him now… 

_Hey Bucky! Ain’t you done watering the trees yet?_

He pulled the cigarette away from his mouth long enough to exhale a stream of smoke, and then he spat off the bit of tobacco that was clinging to his lip. He stuck the cigarette back in and held onto it with his lips while he reached down to grab his rifle, the barrel of it leaning against a wide tree-trunk. He straightened back up, slung the strap over his shoulder, and started to make his way back to camp… 

* * *

For just a split second, when he woke up, he knew who he was— who he _really_ was— even though it didn’t make any sense. But he knew it. He knew he was Bucky, and he was terrified, because he didn’t understand… 

And then it was gone, and he was just John, waking up in bed with his girl… his beautiful girl, both of them still naked, her curvy, soft body curled around him, a sheet pulled up halfway. His arm was almost numb where it yet lay beneath her— the circulation cut off by her body— but he didn’t care, didn’t want to disturb her. Her head was on his chest, subtly rising and falling with each of his breaths. 

It had to be coming up on dawn. 

“You awake?” she murmured out of nowhere, without lifting her head, and he finally shifted his arm a little, letting the blood rush back in. He moved his hand, stroking the silky skin along her shoulder-blade, where the waves of her long hair had fallen aside. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Was dreamin’…” 

“Anything good?” 

“Can’t remember now,” he said, and his hand paused for a second and then began to move again, running up and down her back. “I think I was smokin’.” 

“You smoke?” 

He was trying to remember the dream… it seemed important. All of his dreams did, lately. 

“Guess I used to,” he said. “Haven’t since… you know. Since I woke up.” 

“Speaking of,” she said, and she finally lifted her head to look at him, rolling a bit so she could prop up her chin on his chest. “You have any idea what time it is?” 

He couldn’t help smiling when he saw her face, and she was returning it— smiling back— and he could see that little gap in her front teeth… God damn, she was pretty. 

“You gotta be somewhere?” he said. 

“Yeah, work,” she said, her smile faltering. “They’re gonna fire my ass.” She slid down and lay her head sideways on his chest again, but he could still hear her quiet words as her hand caressed his bare skin, her fingers tracing the thin line of hair that trailed down from his navel, and he could stay there forever— like a longed-for happy dream, the feeling of her hands on him, touching him… 

“It’s not fair,” she said. “I wasted all my sick days alone in my room, when I could’ve been here, with you.” 

He felt it, like a heat in his body: the affirmation that she wanted him… _still_ wanted him: it hadn’t been a fluke, or a mistake, something she was gonna flee from, like last time. 

“We’ll just have to make up for it, then,” he said, and he was playing with her hair now, his fingers idly carding through the wavy, deep-brown strands. It was beautiful… like mermaid hair… Everything about her was beautiful… 

“N’less you got other plans,” he added, a little cheeky. 

“Until further notice, all my plans start and end with you,” she said, sliding her hand back up to his chest, and she lifted up her head to look at him again. He’d been teasing, but he could see in her face that she was completely serious, and he felt it like a jolt in his heart. 

“Jesus, doll,” he said. “You’re gonna kill me, sayin’ stuff like that.” 

“I mean it,” she said, and then her eyes softened, becoming playful again. 

“Where do you get that, anyway,” she said, and she was dragging the rest of her body up on top of his, so that she was now draped completely over him. 

He had access to the full length of her body now, and his hand took advantage of it, running down her back to the smooth, flaring curve of her gorgeous, heart-shaped ass. 

“What,” he said, as his hand made a turn around the full curve of it, and then traveled back up, his fingers following the elegant line of her spine. “Get what.” 

“That language,” she said. “_Doll. Babydoll. Sweetheart_… I mean, who talks like that?” 

“Apparently, I do,” he said, and he chuckled a little, because it seemed funny, in that moment, that he didn’t know the answer any more than she did. “Why? You don’t like it?” 

“No, it’s not that,” she said. “It’s just… unusual. Kinda old-fashioned. But I like it: it’s so… _you_.” 

“Well, as long as you like it,” he said, “Don’t much care where I got it from.” 

He knew she could feel it now: how he was hard again, and he wondered if he should do something about it— get up, go take a shower… she’d said she needed to go… 

“I don’t wanna go,” she groaned, as though she’d read his thoughts. She was resting her cheek on his chest, her hand feeling the planes of his muscles, toying with his body hair. “_Fuck_…,” she moaned, making him smile again, because it was sweet, the way she expressed it so crudely: the longing they were both feeling, to just stay there… drift… 

He felt like quitting: like they should both just inform their bosses they were leaving, effective immediately. Get the fuck out of this place. Make a new reality, that started with them. He wondered what she’d say, if he proposed it. 

“Do you know where I put my phone?” she said. “Fuck, I don’t even remember… God, it’s probably back at the bar or something… feels like a million years ago…” 

“It’s on the desk,” he said, and he sat up, letting her slide off him so he could scoot over and stand up, padding over to the desk to retrieve it for her. “It’s six-thirty-three,” he said, after glancing at the screen, but she was silent, and when he turned back to look, she was sitting up in the bed, openly staring at him. 

“Jesus Christ,” she said. She seemed stunned. 

“What,” he said, worried. “What is it. You already late?” 

Her eyes were following him as he returned to the bed, still on him as he sat down and handed the phone over. She took it, but didn’t even look at it as she held it limply in her hand. 

“I just— I guess I didn’t get the full impact in the dark, or with the clothes you were wearing, or—” 

She laughed then, and she looked so pretty that he wanted to push her back down on the bed and bury himself in her again, make her smile and moan and sigh… 

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” she said. “You know that, right? I mean, _God_. Your ass alone could win an award.” 

He was embarrassed, ducked his head a little as he lay back down, pulled the sheet up partway over his body. 

“Nuh uh,” she said, shaking her head, as she set her phone aside, sliding it under the pillow, and then she pulled the sheet back down. 

“What’re you doin’,” he said, but he was laughing now too, powerless to it, as she slung a leg over him, to straddle his body where he lay. God, it felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually laughed— felt happy enough to even want to. Maybe never. His face was so unaccustomed to it, the muscles there unused for so long, that he could feel it: how, without his enhancements, his cheeks would’ve been sore from just that little bit of smiling… 

“I’m gonna be so late,” she said, looking down— grinning, as she wrapped her hand around him, lifted herself up… “But it’ll be a billion percent worth it…” 

* * *

The second time was lighter— both of them smiling, happy, as she worked him carefully, showing him what she could do with her body. He’d just lain back, letting her do it, sometimes shutting his eyes, catching his lower lip under his teeth and then letting it go in a satisfied groan, followed by another smile, and it was like she was doing to him what he’d wanted to do to her: make her smile and moan and sigh all over again, and _God_ it was good… 

He didn’t try to stifle it: the desperate sound he made as he finally emptied inside her, his hand gripping her hip as his eyes slammed shut, his hips canted upward, his thighs lifting her up a little, and he felt her follow right after, her legs trembling as she squeezed and shuddered around him… 

She was grinning— swaying a little— when he opened his eyes to look, and then she lifted off carefully and slid back down to his side, wrapping herself against his body like she belonged there, her hand on his chest, claiming him… both of them resting quietly as they brought their breathing back down, sweaty and warm and completely content… 

He had one, short-lived moment of terror, when he realized that he finally had something he was afraid to lose, and it took him by surprise— his heart beating faster as his arm wrapped around her a little more tightly… 

He didn't want to let her go: wanted to keep her there all day, in his bed… in his arms— or _arm_, anyway, but he could feel her tension building back up as the reality of her responsibilities leaked back into the forefront of her thoughts. 

“Least lemme get you cleaned up,” he said, when she finally slid off of him and pushed herself upright with a tired-sounding sigh… 

She turned her head back to look at him, gave him a sad kind of smile. “Okay,” she said, softly. 

So they dragged themselves out of bed, leaving the sheets a tangled mess, and then the two of them crowded into the tiny shower stall together, and let the water run warm on their skin as they moved their hands over one another, still learning each other’s bodies… 

Before long, what had started as a bonafide effort to wash up transitioned to a more sensual kind of caressing, and then she’d simply leaned into him, holding him close, as the spray beat down and the stall filled up with steam. 

His back was pressed into the warm stone tile, resting their weight against it as he held her, both of them heavy and hot and boneless, and he could feel the tears coming as she ran her lips against his chest, her hands moving on him so tenderly, like he mattered— like this mangled, messed-up body of his, and the jumbled-up head that sat upon it, wasn’t something to be ashamed of… 

She was treating him like he had value— like he was precious. And it hurt, for some reason. He didn’t know why he was crying. 

“_Sweetheart_,” he whispered, but it was all he could say… everything else he wanted to express was locked inside the ache in his throat… 

* * *

He was watching her put on her shoes, her hair still dripping, while he pulled on a fresh pair of sweatpants and attached his prosthetic arm, and then he just sat there, shirtless, unable to tear his eyes away. He was hit with a wave of sadness— an overwhelming need to keep her there. He didn’t want her to go. 

He didn’t know how to say what he needed to say. 

“I miss you already,” was what came out, as he watched her finish up with the second shoe. 

She pushed herself up, went to the desk to grab her wristlet, and then turned back to face him, where he’d stood up as well, waiting. It felt like they’d been in his room for a year. For their entire lives. He couldn’t imagine her not being there. There’d be a vacuum: a void where her spirit should be, inside him. 

She moved straight into him, and he reached out to pull her in: easier now, with two arms. He held her to him as she rested her face against his bare chest, her arms wrapping around his body to hold him. 

“It’s so weird,” she said, softly. 

“What is, sweetheart.” 

She tilted her head up to look at him. “I hardly know you. But I feel like I’ve known you forever. Like we’ve always known each other. I know that sounds like the dumbest cliché, or—” 

“S’not dumb,” he said, and he watched his fingers tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and then he looked into her eyes again, his thumb tracing her cheekbone… trying not to shy away from just saying how he felt. “It’s the same for me.” 

“I don’t know how I’m gonna make it,” she said. “A whole day of boring, stupid-ass work, when I could be kissing your pretty face instead.” 

He grinned then, his eyes a little hooded, and it felt familiar— like his face knew how to do this, even if he couldn’t remember ever being this way before: a little cocky, a little sassy. “You’re takin’ all my lines,” he said. 

Just as quickly, the smile fell, and he was just himself again. He felt like he was already mourning the loss of her, even while she was still in his arms. 

“How long you have to work?” she said. 

“Don’t know,” he said. “S’always different. Don’t care, though. Whenever you’re done, I’m done.” 

“I’m usually stuck there ’til six,” she said. “And I’ll probably have to eat lunch at my desk today; I’m sure there’s a hell-pile of backlog waiting for me.” 

“Should I come find you at six?” he said. 

“Yeah. Or I’ll find you, if I get done sooner. I wanna be back in this bed before sundown, and I don’t care who I have to crawl over to do it. If you’re not here, I’m gonna track you down.” 

“Okay,” he said, and he couldn’t help smiling— almost shy, hardly able to believe it was true. That this was really happening. That so much could change, in a single day. 

“Okay,” she said softly, echoing him, but she still wasn’t moving. 

They were stalling, dragging it out, and a part of him was screaming, “_Tell her you love her, you asshole_,” but he knew it was too soon, too weird, so he stayed quiet— just kissed her one more time, his hand holding her face so he could do it slow, and then he let her go, licking his lips to taste the flavor she’d left behind, watching, unblinking, as she stepped backward away from him, still holding his hand. 

She gave him one last brilliant smile, and said, “See you later, cowboy,” and then she finally let go, dropping his hand, and then she turned and went out the door, pulling it shut behind her. 

And he got lost in a memory then, though he was still awake— still in his room— aware of both his body, standing there in the present, and the slide of his mind into the past… 

He didn’t know who the memory was about, but he was in a park somewhere, and some little kid had lost his grip on the string of his balloon, and he’d watched as it’d been ripped away by invisible forces, succumbing instantly to the density around it… drifting upward, almost weightless, the little red dot getting smaller and smaller… 

The kid was crying, and Bucky (_who’s Bucky?_) watched it too, as it floated away, and he thought to himself, as he stood there, alone, _there goes my heart_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW/CW: Threats of assault/violence. Threats at gunpoint. Graphic Violence. Upsetting stuff.**

Darcy left John’s room in a hazy fog of bittersweet bliss: annoyed that she had to go, but riding high on the deep-seated comfort she’d gotten from their time together— not just physically this time, but emotionally, as well. And as much as she hated leaving him, the anticipation of getting to see him again at the end of the day— to take up where they’d left off— was already giving her a new kind of strength. A feeling of hope that she hadn’t felt in an age… 

She was also buzzing with a kind of elation as it really sank in just how much she honestly _liked_ him: really, truly liked him, as a human being— would have, even without the pull of the bond telling her to. 

She felt lucky. 

She was smiling to herself, her body one big, happy ache: still wrung-out with a sweet kind of soreness, a reminder of the places he’d been… the intensity they’d shared. She wanted to be greedy: to turn right back around and get some more… or even just climb back into bed to talk some more… to feel the slide of his hand on her skin as they shared stories with each other… 

She wanted to know everything… and to tell him more about herself— if they could keep their mouths off each other long enough to talk… 

She knew she was acting like a love-sick teenager: calculating how many hours it would be until she could see him again… feel his skin, touch his face… soak herself in his smell and kiss him… 

She had a dopey-ass grin on her face, and she was so adrift in her own thoughts, unseeing, that she never saw it coming. 

Peck was there, waiting: a blob of shadow, hidden behind the edge of an equipment locker, just outside of John’s private workspace. When she passed through the open doorway and entered the main part of the workshop, he simply stepped up behind her, having every advantage: Height. Weight. Strength. 

Surprise. 

He swept in, throwing all of those advantages into the initial attack— yanked her backward in a vicious head-lock, his dominant arm wrapping around her neck, pulling her into his body, while his other big, meaty hand clapped over her mouth. 

For Darcy, it was an explosion of sensation: the shock of it, followed by confusion, and then panic. The now-familiar spike of nausea ripped through her guts as he wrenched her roughly backward toward the rear of the workroom. 

She kicked her legs instinctively, frantically, her hands reaching for the arm around her neck, scrabbling at it, trying to loosen its hold, even as he pulled her, more urgently now, heading for the machine room, and she knew she was in big trouble… 

She could smell his underarm sweat— sour, like fried onions— and his voice was a frustrated rasp in her ear: “Stop with your wrestlin’… it’ll go easier if you don’t fight it.” 

_Like hell it will_, she thought, and she continued to struggle with every cell in her being— wrenching her body back and forth, trying to make herself as inconvenient as possible. She was screaming against his fleshy palm, but no sound was able to escape, and the feeling of nausea was increasing, the longer he had his hands on her… 

There was the creak of a metal door opening, and she realized it was John’s, and then she heard his voice, directed the other way, toward the elevators. She could hear his footfalls as he apparently tried to catch up with her, thinking she’d be waiting in the hallway for the next car going up… 

“Darcy!” He called out. “Sweetheart, you forgot your phone…” 

Peck had frozen at the sound of John heading the other way, and he was trying to hold Darcy’s body still— to keep her quiet, lifting her body slightly off the floor so that she couldn’t stamp her feet. She struggled ferociously, hoping to make any audible sound that John might hear from across the room. When Peck’s palm loosened on her face momentarily, trying to control her, she knew it was her one chance. 

She managed to bare her teeth just enough to catch a sliver of his fleshy palm, and she bit down on it as hard as she could— ready to rip a strip of skin off his hand, if she could— and Peck instinctively yelped and jerked his hand away. It was only for a second, but it was enough to get out her own frantic sound— just an aborted syllable: a “_Juh_—” before Peck cut her off, covering her mouth even harder this time, and she prayed it’d been enough— that John had heard something… 

Peck pulled up savagely on her neck— a punishment— slamming her jaw against her upper teeth, and she bit her own tongue, tasting the coppery blood, and she could feel his anger as he dragged her rapidly, aggressively, backward— pulling her into the machine room. 

The air inside the room felt old— heavy with the smell of ancient oil and solvent. The walls were lined with heavy equipment: drill presses, band saws, bench grinders. 

“Fucking bitch,” he hissed, under his breath, once they were back by the machines, and she thought he was talking to her, but then he whispered— intently, urgently: “_For fuck’s sake, get down here. He’s here— he’s out of his room_,” and Darcy realized that he had to have a hidden mic on him somewhere… communicating with someone… 

She’d figured this for an assault: something personal… a punishment for the way she’d treated him before. But this was something else— and even in her fear, she had a fleeting flicker of relief, because she was no longer positive that she was about to be raped. 

He shoved her hard onto the floor, face-down, and pressed his knee into her back, and her mouth was suddenly free to breathe— to scream— but before she could make another sound, she heard a _click_ and felt the press of hard metal against the back of her head, and she froze. 

“You know what that is?” he whispered, already leaning in to gather up her wrists with his free hand, behind her back, and she nodded, whimpering. 

“You gonna be a good girl? No more sounds?” 

She nodded again, and he wrenched her arms back even harder, hurting her, and he said, “Good, because if you try something like that again I’m gonna blow your fuckin’ brains out all over this floor. You got that?” He yanked on her wrists, hurting her. “Huh?” 

She nodded again, furiously, and she heard him fumbling around for something behind her, the gun still pressed to her head, and then something slipped over her hands and tightened around her wrists… zip ties… 

He pulled her back up then, roughly, using one of her arms as a handle, the gun still pressed to her head. He turned them around, and… 

John was there, standing in the doorway: still shirtless, holding Darcy’s phone. He was blocking the exit, but he wasn’t moving. His hands were up, palms facing toward Peck, the phone gripped in the flesh one. His face was like stone— perhaps pretending to a kind of calm— and yet there was a sinister kind of vibration emanating from him, as though one wrong move would cause him to fly apart, to explode… 

Peck must have felt it too, because he slid the gun forward, making it more obvious, pressing the barrel into Darcy’s scalp, just behind her ear. He was making his point, even though John had clearly already known about the gun: the threat of it going off was, she assumed, the only reason Peck still had a functioning spinal column. 

“Stay back, man,” said Peck. “Don’t make me—” 

“Don’t hurt her,” said John, and he pressed his lips together, breathing loudly through his nose. He was trying to contain it. “Whatever this is— we can talk about it. Just let her go.” 

Peck laughed then: just a short, snuffling sound, a little crazy. “You think I’m fuckin’ stupid?” he said. 

While the men were exchanging their words, Darcy had been staring into John’s eyes— trying to communicate, to figure out what she was meant to do. She was going to puke soon, in any case— whether she tried something or not— and maybe that would be enough to make Peck flinch… 

John was talking back, his eyes telling her a couple of things, if she was reading them correctly. The first of them was an assurance: _I won’t let him hurt you_. But there was something else there too, and she got the message, even as he continued to engage Peck, kept him talking… John was trying to tell her that he just needed the smallest, tiniest window… 

Peck was controlling her, still holding her by the arm, but he wasn’t gripping her firmly— was relying on the gun to keep her in line. If she could just drop— fall to the floor, or at least duck for a second… 

She knew John was strong; she was guessing he was fast, too. It was worth a shot. She trusted him; trusted what he was telling her with his eyes, and she hoped he was ready. 

She realized, as she looked at him— the two men in a standoff— that he was always ready. Like a machine, or… like all the days he’d watched her from the edges of a room— almost like a predator, or even an assassin… watching, waiting… patient… 

She thought about what he’d said: _Maybe I am scary_. But that was okay. That was fine. She could use some scary right now, as long as it was on her side. 

“Please, just don’t hurt her,” he said again, and he was still talking to Peck, but his eyes were on her, and when her breath picked up for just a couple of seconds, he read it for what it was, and then she ducked, using all of her weight to try to drop to the ground, and there was a flash of movement, and she heard Peck’s cry as his wrist was snapped like a dry twig, the gun clattering across the floor along with Darcy’s phone… 

She was struggling to right herself— to flip over so she could sit up and see— and when she did, John was already pressing Peck into the wall between two of the big machines, his flesh hand wrapped around the man’s neck, in a near-replay of what he’d done to the asshole in the gym. 

He was holding Peck several inches off the ground, just with the strength of that one hand alone— holding him captive, like a beetle pinned into a display case, legs still moving, still alive, and she understood that John was probably going to kill him… 

Darcy was gasping, trying to breathe through the waning nausea, trying not to throw up, even as she was struggling to stand again: difficult, with her hands still bound behind her, and she knew she needed to remember that video Jane had shown her: how to break out of zip ties— but all she could see now was John, the ropes standing out on his neck… his breath, angry, as his eyes bored into Peck, his grip on the man’s neck unrelenting… 

She was pushing out the words: “Don’t— John, _don’t_— don’t kill him… don’t….” 

He seemed to be trapped somewhere in between: maybe some part of him wanting to lose control. To squeeze, and squeeze, and feel the man’s throat collapse under the pressure. To punish him, for what he’d done. Prevent him from ever doing it again. But he could hear her voice too; she was sure of it. Understood why she was telling him to stop: if he killed Peck, that would be it. They’d take him away, and… 

Even as he struggled to choose— to reel in the anger— his grip was tightening, Peck’s face turning red, and then purple, his boots kicking helplessly in the air. 

“John,” she said, and she was frantic now, crawling toward them on her knees, clumsy… “You gotta stop… you gotta—” 

She heard the distant ding of the elevator, the thump of boots on the floor, and she breathed out a sigh of relief: people were coming. Help was coming. They could take over, calm everything down, take Peck away… 

But how had anyone known— 

“Oh, fuck,” said a man, and she knew that voice. 

“Brennan,” it said, sharply— like an order— and then she saw him: one of a group of four agents who pushed their way in, fanning out to block the exit and control the room. It was Mark— gym guy. And his horrible friend, Kyle. Another tough-looking guy she didn’t recognize: he had fair skin, and close-cropped naturally-blond hair, which gave him a look reminiscent of a Swedish nazi. A sharp-looking woman with a blonde ponytail rounded out the group. They were all dressed in lightweight combat gear, carrying stun batons. Their free hands hovered near their pistols, ready to draw. 

“Thank God,” said Darcy, sitting back on her heels and then pushing up to stand on wobbly legs. “You gotta—” 

“Shut up,” said Mark, without looking at her. His eyes were locked onto John. 

“He’s gonna kill him,” said the woman, her tone flat, business-like. She didn’t seem too concerned about it. 

“Brennan,” said Mark again. And then, sharply: “Hey! Brennan! I’m talkin’ to you. Let him go, or we’ll make you— and it ain’t gonna be pretty.” 

John was still breathing loudly through his nose, and she could tell he was trying to stop— trying to pull back, and Peck’s eyelids were fluttering now; he’d ceased trying to fight back… 

“You,” said Mark, low, to Kyle. “Stay with the girl.” Kyle snapped to it, striding over to Darcy. He yanked her backward away from the action, not caring that he was hurting her. 

“Let go of me,” said Darcy, protesting the rough treatment, and she swallowed as she felt the nausea returning— a fresh wave of it, as he put his hands on her arms, restraining her. 

“Shut up,” said Kyle, echoing Mark, and something soured in Darcy’s stomach when she heard it, because this wasn’t right, not even for that asshole… 

Something was very wrong here… 

Mark nodded to the other two: nazi-guy and ponytail-woman— and said, “Go hard. Might only have one chance…” They all switched on their batons, which came alive with a sharp, buzzing, _snap_, and they all looked at each other, ramping up for it… 

“Ready?” he said, and Darcy was going to ask them what they were going to do, but it was already too late… 

It was fast and brutal. The three of them set upon John like they were trying to take down a tiger: aggressively, afraid for their own safety— jabbing their batons unflinchingly into the bare skin of his upper body. They were leaning into the sticks, giving him the full force of the voltage… 

He cried out at the first contact of the batons, releasing Peck immediately: the doughy, purple-faced man dropped to the floor with a loud thump and slumped over, like a big, dead doll. 

Darcy had thought that’d be it… but Mark and the others didn’t stop: they maintained the assault with their batons, keeping the current running through John’s body continuously as he fell to the floor. The three of them pressed into him from all sides, their faces determined, merciless, their teeth gritting from the exertion as John screamed and caved in on himself, not even trying to fend off the attack… 

“Stop it,” yelled Darcy, and she tried to break away— tried to get to him— but Kyle yanked her back. 

“Don’t,” he said, a warning in her voice. “Don’t interfere.” He seemed nervous, his eyes never leaving John, and she didn’t understand: one tap from a baton like that would be enough to disable a regular man temporarily, at least long enough to restrain him by other means. She knew John was enhanced— that it’d take more than a tap to disable him— but the way they were going after him, staying on him, it was like they had a different goal in mind… like they were trying to kill him… 

“What are they doing,” cried Darcy, and she retched, almost throwing up, and she tried to move toward him again, needing them to stop hurting him, but Kyle’s grip on her arm was firm, strong. “But he’s already down,” she said, distraught, as she watched him curl up, trying to protect himself; “He’s—” 

“Quiet,” said Kyle, his voice hard, and then he shoved her, and she tripped and fell backward— fell down hard on her ass, unable to break her fall, and he made a scoffing sound at her and said, “This is what you get, pickin’ a guy like that, to fuck around with.” And then he sneered and said, “Or should I say _fuck_. Were you fuckin’ him? You were, weren’t you. Fuckin’ the Winter Soldier and you didn’t even know it.” 

“What?” said Darcy, not understanding any of it, and all of a sudden the Earth tilted a little because she now knew, for certain, that these people hadn’t come to help at all— that there was something else going on here… something bad, something to do with John, and the mystery of his past, and it was finally catching up to him… 

“What’s going on,” she said again, helplessly, all of the fear from before coming back, her face crumbling as she looked at John, who was prone on the floor now, twitching a little. 

The agents had finally let up on him— were standing back from his body, breathing heavily from their efforts. The blond-haired woman blew a strand of bangs out of her face; they’d come loose from her ponytail during the intensity of the assault. 

Darcy choked down another retch, and her nose was running from crying, but she couldn’t wipe it, her hands still firmly bound behind her. “Please, someone just tell me what’s happening,” she said. 

They all ignored her, murmuring amongst themselves as they stood in a circle around John’s motionless body: something about transportation, and then one of the guys said, “Where the fuck is the doctor? She should be here by now.” 

“I’m not waitin’ forever,” said Mark. “We don’t even need her; we—” 

“She needs to come with us,” protested the woman. “You know they’re gonna take a hard look at her if she stays behind, and—” 

“You think she’d crack?” scoffed Mark. “No way. Lady’s a fanatic. She’d chew on a capsule before she’d say one word.” 

“Well, she better get here soon, or—” 

Whatever the blonde lady had been about to say was cut off when John’s hand shuddered as it came to life, reaching out to grab onto one of the guys’ ankles, yanking him to the floor, and then he was lumbering up, dipping clumsily to avoid a jab with one of the batons. He was stumbling, unsteady, trying to regain his footing, but he got in one swing of his fist: the woman got it in the face, and she fell back with a shriek. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ move,” said Kyle, leaving Darcy to help his friends, who were scrambling to get it together, switching on their batons again as John lashed out around him, teetering, confused. Together, they circled him and took him down again, as viciously as they’d done before, jabbing at him and holding steady even once he'd ceased to resist, falling once again to the floor. 

He was lying on his side now, unmoving— he looked to be unconscious this time, his chest an ugly map of red burns from the prongs on the batons, and the agents all stood back again, panting. 

"Holy shit," said the nazi guy, wiping the sweat off his upper lip. 

The ponytail woman was struggling to stand up behind them, her nose a smashed mess of dripping, bright-red blood. “I think he broke it,” she said, and then she coughed and spat on the floor. “He fuckin’ broke my nose…” 

“Guy’s like the fuckin’ Terminator,” said Kyle, and just as he said it, John’s prosthetic hand twitched on the floor, and a couple of them flinched, startled, and nazi-guy said, “Jesus, hit him again!” 

“No,” said a new voice— a low, female voice— and Darcy could see someone else entering the room, the others standing back to make room for her. Darcy didn’t recognize her, but she seemed to be a person of authority. She was middle-aged— neatly dressed, with a sleek, dark-brown bobbed hairdo. Unlike the others, she wasn’t in combat gear— just a standard, business-appropriate blouse-and-pencil-skirt combo. Her heels made a sharp sound on the polished cement. 

“You okay?” the woman said, to the ponytail lady, as she noticed her messed-up face, the twin rivers of blood dripping down over her lips and off her chin. 

“I’ll live,” she said. 

“What about him?” said the older woman, gesturing to Peck, who was still lying on the floor like a pile of dirty rags. 

“Knocked out, I guess,” said Kyle. “Haven’t had time to check. He was chokin’ him out, when we got here.” 

The suit-woman picked her way over to Peck, squatted down to check for a pulse while the others stood around, keeping a wary eye on John, who was still on his side, unmoving. 

Darcy had been using the distraction of the new woman’s arrival to slowly and quietly push herself back on her butt, just a few inches at a time, until she was next to one of the drill presses. There was a shallow opening beneath the foot of the machine, and she’d seen the corner of her phone peeking out from under it— someone must have kicked it, knocking it across the floor and under the press, during the chaos. She turned her body a little, blocking the view of her hands as she subtly slid her fingers backward on the floor, trying to locate the edge of the phone by touch. 

The suit-woman dropped her fingers from Peck’s neck: “He’s still alive,” she said. 

“Ma’am?” said the ponytail woman, whose eyes were still on John. “I think he’s coming around.” 

The suit-woman pushed herself up and went back over to where John still lay on the floor. She squatted down by his head, put her hand on his shoulder, spoke to him gently. 

“John?” she said. “John, can you hear me? It’s Doctor Oberly.” 

He moaned— once— tried to lift his head, but failed. He seemed unable to move his limbs. 

“Jesus,” she said, looking up at the others, still standing around. “How much you zap him with?” 

“Had to,” said Mark, sounding defensive. “Guy was like a machine. Wouldn’t stay down.” 

She looked back to John and nodded and said, “Bring him. Lift him up; set him against that wall over there.” 

Darcy was watching all of it, even as she continued to feel around with her hands. They seemed to have forgotten about her, at least for now. She was unimportant: not a threat to them. A noncombatant, her hands bound. 

She scooted back a little more, her butt now pressed into the foot of the machine, and she felt around some more… and then she got it: the corner of something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Something solid, but movable. Her phone. 

Kyle and Mark were dragging John by his armpits, moving him over to the wall where the doctor had indicated. They propped him up, but his head immediately lolled back down, a line of drool hanging from his mouth. 

Darcy was inching the phone toward her butt, and when she felt the edge of it hit her hip, behind her, she looked down, needing to twist her head a little— tried to make it look she like was itching her chin with her shoulder. Luckily, the phone was already face-up. The screen was cracked; she prayed that it wasn’t broken inside, as well… 

It was awkward with her hands bound, but she was able to press the button to bring up the home screen. It lit up: still working. She looked back to the group, checking to make sure they weren’t paying attention to her, and then looked back down again, trying to be subtle. Brought up the basic command screen with the side of her thumb, and pressed the emergency call button. 

There was no 911 service for the base, but a tap on the emergency button, followed by a confirmation tap, would send an automated message to security, along with the location of the phone. She tapped again— the confirmation to send— and then switched the phone off so it wouldn’t ring if they tried to call her, and slid it back under the drill press. 

The doctor was squatting down in front of John; she’d actually kneeled down between his legs— awkward in the pencil skirt— so she could see his face clearly. She was lifting his head up with her left hand, trying to look into his eyes, which were barely open. He looked like he was drunk. 

“John,” she said, gently, and then she steadied his face, a little more firmly, when it began to sag again. “John— can you hear me?” 

Out of nowhere, she hauled off and slapped him— hard— across the face. The agents standing around stepped back a little, uneasy. “Fuck,” said Kyle. “You sure you should be—” 

“Quiet,” snapped the doctor. 

He was responding a little, finally: maybe to the slap, or to her words… trying to open his eyes, his lips moving. Making sounds. But what came out of them sounded like gobbledygook, at least to Darcy. Like another language. 

The doctor turned her head, looking at the ponytail woman, who’d been trying to clean the drying blood on her face with the front hem of her shirt, but had stopped at the sound of John’s words, a look of surprise on her face. 

“Did you get that?” asked the doctor. 

“Yeah,” said the other woman, a little breathlessly. “He said—” And she smiled a little, the expression grotesque in the landscape of her broken, bloody face. 

“What,” said the doctor impatiently. 

“He said he’s ready to comply.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW/TW: Gun violence. Graphic violence.**   


Agent May was about halfway through teaching a beginner’s hand-to-hand class in the gym when the alert came through. 

The beeping sound pulled her out of the instruction, and she looked down to her wrist unit, frowning. She’d enabled a personal auto-alert, separate from the main system, in the event that either Lewis or Brennan’s name popped up, for the times that she was unable to directly surveil them. Any time there was a card-swipe or a request made in either of their names, she’d get a notification, along with location information, if relevant. 

She was surprised to be getting something so early in the morning; she knew their schedules— knew both of them would have only just begun their workdays. 

“Andrews,” she said, nodding to a petite, dark-skinned woman. Andrews was in payroll, was discounted by everyone— including the other women— and had, by far, the most potential of anyone in the class, if she could find a way to conquer her shyness. 

“Take over for minute, would you?” said May. “Run some scenarios. Pair everyone off. I need to check on something.” 

“Yes ma’am,” said Andrews, and May straightened up and strode toward the exit, pausing to grab her shoes from the edge of the mat on her way to the door. 

She was in her office less than a minute later, having pulled on her shoes while riding the elevator, and she leaned over her desk, opening up the security app on her laptop without bothering to sit down. She put in her password and frowned. 

The alert had come from Lewis’s phone, currently located somewhere on B3: Maintenance— Brennan’s domain. It was a request for emergency assistance, which was odd: there weren’t any active emergencies coming up on the main system overview. She clicked on the cameras for that area, trying to bring up a live feed, but there was nothing: just a blank, like the cameras had been shut off. She tapped on her keyboard, opening a direct channel to the main security hub. 

“Davis speaking,” said the agent who answered her call. 

“Yeah, this is May,” she said, her voice clipped, to-the-point. She was still clicking around on the app, trying to troubleshoot the problem. “I picked up a call for assistance from someone on B3. You know anything about that? The cameras seem to be faulty.” 

“Ah, yeah,” said the guy on the line, sounding bland. “Sorry you got bothered with that; it’s nothing. That’s what the call was about, actually. Someone down there noticed the cameras were glitching. So we’re rebooting everything down there. Should be back online any minute. How come you got an alert for that?” 

“So, nothing to report, then,” said May, ignoring his question. 

“Nothing worth your time, ma’am,” said the guy cheerfully. 

“Happy to hear it,” said May, smiling a fake smile even though Davis couldn’t see her. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

“No problem,” said Davis, and the line clicked off. 

May straightened up, pressed her lips together for a few seconds, and then opened a drawer and pulled out a clean phone, quickly punched in the number for Phil’s office, and sandwiched the phone between her cheek and shoulder. She unlocked the lower drawer on her desk and pulled out her sidearm, checked to see that it had a full magazine, and shoved an extra one into the cargo pocket on her pants, all while waiting for someone to pick up. 

“Agent Coulson’s in a meeting right now,” said a female voice, finally, “If you can—” 

“Allison,” said May, interrupting Phil’s personal assistant. “It’s May; I’m calling from a burner. Tell him to call me back at this number. It’s an emergency. And see if you can get Maria— she was due to land in an hour. Tell her we may have a security breach.” 

“Right away, ma’am,” said the woman, who was good enough to simply cut the call at that point. May was already heading out the door, racking the slide on the pistol on her way. 

* * *

“You’re absolutely sure that’s what he said?” 

Oberly was staring intently at the blonde, who shrugged, and sniffed a little. The bleeding from her nose had mostly stopped. 

“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, who knows. Maybe the batons… the intensity of the voltage? Maybe it triggered him. Felt like a wipe, or…” 

The doctor looked back to John, exhaling smoothly. It was unexpected, but would be a phenomenally lucky break if it held— even just long enough to get to the vehicles. 

They’d anticipated having to drag him out by force, if the old activation sequence didn’t work. It wasn’t like they’d ever been able to test it; their original plan of gradually re-exposing him to it, subliminally, once she’d gained his full trust, had had to be shelved with the unforeseen complication of his soulmark being triggered… 

“John,” she said, trying to rouse him again. “John Brennan.” And then, a little more sharply, “_Soldier_. Eyes front.” 

He didn’t open his eyes, but his lips made the same words, the same sounds as before, pushing them out with a heavy weariness: “_Gotóv… gotóv otvechát_…” 

“We gotta get a move on,” said Kyle. His finger was on his earpiece, listening to someone on the other end. “Fuckin’ May just called into security. Wanted to know why the cameras were out down here. Said they handled it, but—” 

“How the hell—” said Mark, and Darcy saw his eyes dart over to her, and then he was striding over, lifting her up roughly by one of her biceps, his grip bruising, the nausea already returning with his touch. “Where is it,” he said, and he was like a stranger: no trace of the friendly guy she used to flirt with at the gym. “Where’s the phone.” 

“Fuck you,” said Darcy. She would have spat in his face, if she’d hadn’t been so close to throwing up. 

“We don’t have time for this,” snapped the doctor. “You sure the cameras are still out?” 

“Yeah,” said Kyle. “Jason’s got it covered.” 

John was mumbling again, starting to come around more. Darcy was pretty sure he was speaking in Russian. She didn’t know John could speak Russian. But why would she? She hardly knew him. 

“What did you do to him,” she said. Mark was still gripping her arm, hurting her, and she swallowed down another wave of nausea, swaying a little. 

Mark looked at her, and shook his head, and then shoved her back down, like she was an annoying child. “Stay down,” he said. “Keep your mouth shut.” 

She heard John say something in English then, his voice soft. “My arm,” he said. “It’s not.” And then he switched back to Russian: “_Ni na sto protséntov_.” And then English again. “I’m sorry… don’t know what—” 

The blonde spoke up, translating: “He said it’s not at a hundred percent.” 

“What about this one?” said the doctor, touching his prosthesis. 

He flexed the hand, bent the arm at the elbow. “_Isprávnaya_.” 

“Operational,” said the blonde. 

“Good,” said the doctor, and then she snapped her hand out toward one of the guys. “Your sidearm,” she said. 

Nazi-guy stepped up, handed it over, and she took it, and then pressed it into John’s hand— the prosthetic one. 

The others stepped back, obviously disconcerted by her decision to arm him. 

“You really gonna trust him?” said Kyle. “He could be faking.” 

The doctor shook her head, staring into John’s face. “I don’t think so.” A moment later she pushed herself up and said, “But you’re right. Let’s test that. And let’s try to stick to Russian with him from here on out, as much as we can.” 

The blonde nodded and pushed herself back up to standing, ready to make herself useful. 

“Tell him to get up,” said Oberly. 

The blonde spoke to him, starting with a tough-sounding, “_Soldat!_” followed by a string of Russian words, and John blinked a few times, his prosthetic hand flexing around the grip of the pistol. Though it wasn’t his dominant hand, he seemed perfectly comfortable holding the gun with it. 

He pushed himself up, wobbling a little— unsteady— and the agents stepped back some more, still wary… not wanting to be in his line of fire… 

“Tell him to kill Peck,” said the doctor, simply. 

The blonde said the words and then pointed toward Pecks’s crumpled body. He was still unconscious— hadn’t moved a muscle since John had released him from the choke-hold. 

John looked to see where the blonde was pointing. He took a deep breath, reeling a little, but steadied himself. He swallowed, clenched his jaw. Looked at the blonde once, confirming. “_Yevó?_” 

She nodded. “_Cdélai_.” 

Darcy watched as he racked the slide on the pistol and then raised it with his prosthetic hand, aiming at Peck, and again the world tilted, because she could see it: see how this was familiar to him, this role… pointing a pistol at someone. Preparing to shoot. Following orders. His body had fallen comfortably into the stance as though he’d done it a thousand times before. It was like another person had slipped inside the shell of his body, taking over. 

She shouted it out at the last second: “John, _no_—” 

A shot rang out, deafening in the confined space, and Darcy flinched from it, covering her ears, and when she looked over to where Peck had been slumped before, she could see that he’d tipped over sideways, and now there was blood and skull and brain matter splattered on the wall. 

The nausea finally got the better of her, and she turned her head and heaved, bringing up nothing but a bit of acid… 

When she looked up again, she could see John offering the pistol back to the doctor, with no more emotion than if he’d borrowed a pencil: job done. 

Kyle was still skeptical, his eyes nervously watching the gun pass back into the doctor’s hands. “Don’t see how that proves anything,” he said. “He was about to kill that asshole before we even got here.” 

Oberly shook her head. “No,” she said. “John Brennan didn’t want to kill anyone. In the heat of passion, maybe— but not like this.” 

“I say we have him kill the girl,” said Kyle. “No way he’d fake that. He said her words, right?” 

“Aw, man,” said Mark. “Really?” He dropped his own pistol, which had been aimed at Darcy for the last few minutes, guarding her. Apparently he’d been prepared to shoot her if necessary, but now that the time had come, he was feeling bad about it. 

“Sorry, Lewis,” he said, shaking his head as he stepped out of the way. 

“Wait, what?” she said. “No. No. You should take me with you, right? I can—” She was scrambling backwards, as best she could, with her wrists still bound, but she was cornered— she’d moved as far back into the room as possible, and was hemmed in on all sides by the big, immovable machines. 

She pictured John doing it: doing to her head what he’d done to Peck’s… 

The doctor didn’t like the idea. “I’d like to bring her,” she said. “Use her in his reconditioning. But we can run a test, if it would make the rest of you stop acting like a bunch of faint-hearted little girls…” 

She handed the pistol back to John, who checked it, even though it was the same one he’d just used. 

“Tell him to shoot her in… how about a knee,” said Oberly. 

“Okay,” said the blonde, and she issued the order, her finger pointing toward Darcy this time. 

John nodded curtly and then he was stepping toward her, raising the pistol, tilting his head a little as he determined, apparently, which knee to go for. 

“Don’t do this,” she said, trying to catch his eye, to see if there was anything of him left inside— anything that recognized her soul— but there was nothing: just a blank expression as he lined up the barrel of the gun… 

She gave up, instinct taking over as she curled up protectively, trying to make herself smaller… squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact, and the pain that would follow… 

And then there was… nothing. 

“Hurry up!” snapped the doctor, breaking the silence. “Do it!” 

The blonde parroted the commands, in Russian. 

Darcy dared to open her eyes, to look at him. He was staring at her, the barrel of the gun like a dark eye bearing down on her. He was hesitating. 

“I know her,” he said, his brow furrowing, the pistol lowering a bit. “_Yeyó znáyu_.” 

It was odd, how he kept switching languages. Whatever they’d done to him, it wasn’t a hundred percent— not yet… or maybe he was just being polite, recognizing that not everyone in the room was bilingual… 

Darcy didn’t care what the reason was. “Yes,” she said, her voice cracking. “You know me. You’re my—” 

“She’s a target,” said the doctor, barreling over what Darcy was saying, while Kyle came over and kicked her hard with his boot to make her shut up. 

The doctor was still speaking to John: “We’re taking her with us. We need to disable her so she can’t run away. Do you understand?” 

The blond-haired lady repeated it all in Russian, and then ended with a harsh-sounding command. 

John pressed his lips together and raised the pistol again. 

Darcy had curled up after the kick to her gut, unable to speak— Kyle had knocked the wind out of her— but she was trying to sit up again, needing to say something, feeling like if only she had the magic words, or maybe if she could touch him, she could get through to John— snap him out of it. He had a gun; he could fight… if he could take out even a couple of them, get one of the batons… 

The eyes that stared back were cold, and his finger was moving on the trigger, preparing to squeeze… 

There was the sound of a shot, and she flinched, but nothing hit her— it’d come from outside the room— and Nazi guy, who’d been standing in the doorway, stumbled forward, shouting, “_Fuck!_” 

Someone else was shooting at them, and whoever it was, they’d gotten the guy in the back of the knee. 

Everyone else scrambled to take up defensive positions, crouching to take cover behind the workbenches and machines, while the injured guy dragged himself away from the open doorway, breathing heavily through clenched teeth, trying not to cry out from the pain. 

Only the Soldier remained standing, responding to the incoming fire, pivoting toward it, looking for the shooter. 

Darcy pushed her self backward with her feet, instinctively trying to get away from him while he was distracted, even though there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. She could feel herself starting to shut down: with the way he was behaving, she had no doubt he would have shot her in the head, if they’d asked him to. 

Another shot rang out, this one hitting the Soldier in the arm— the prosthetic one— and his synthetic hand jerked and almost dropped the pistol, and he looked down at it, frowning, and finally moved out of the line of fire. 

“Who’s shootin’ at us?” hissed Kyle, as he checked his own weapons, readying both of his pistols. 

Darcy pushed herself up, trying to flatten herself against the wall behind one of the machines, her eyes never leaving John, keeping an eye on his hands, wary of the gun. 

He was moving slowly, oddly: like there was a delay between his mind and his body. He seemed to be mostly recovered from the attack with the batons, though the burns were still there as evidence of the assault: dozens of double sets of vicious red dots all over his chest and back, like he’d been attacked by a swarm of giant spiders… 

He was examining his prosthetic hand, trying to work the fingers more firmly around the grip of the gun. The bullet had drilled right through the arm, around the elbow joint, and it’d apparently damaged some of the servos or other mechanisms that powered and controlled the hand; he was having trouble articulating the fingers. 

“Are you okay?” she said, automatically, regretting it instantly— not wanting to draw his attention back to her. 

Kyle, who was crouching behind the bench next to her, chuckled. “Fuckin’ soulmates,” he muttered. “Guy was gonna shoot you, and you’d still suck his cock.” 

“Shut it, Warner,” said Oberly. “But go ahead and break her fingers, if she tries talking to him again.” 

The Soldier, for his part, had glanced at her for a moment, confused by her question, her concern. He looked away, ignoring her again, and switched the gun to his other hand. He wrapped his flesh fingers around the grip of the pistol and then he simply stood at attention, eyes front. Waiting for orders. 

As much as it hurt, terribly, to see the total lack of emotion in his face, and to realize he truly didn't know her— had accepted the other woman's explanation— it was nevertheless a relief that he seemed to have misplaced the order to shoot her for the time being. 

There’d been no more shots— just the sound of everyone readying their weapons, and the labored breathing of the guy with the shattered knee. Mark had ripped the end of the guy’s pants into strips and had tied up the wound to control the bleeding, but the man was obviously in a lot of pain. 

Darcy found she had no sympathy for him. He could fucking suffer and die a slow death, for all she cared. 

“_All of you_,” said a steady, female voice, from somewhere outside of the room— pitching itself to be loud, authoritative. “Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands on your head. _Now_. Brennan, you hear me? You with me?” 

“Fuck, is that May?” said Mark. 

Kyle made a scoffing noise as he checked the magazine of his backup pistol and rammed it back into the well of the grip, and then racked the slide. “Bitch can’t be serious. She got any idea what’s she’s up against?” 

The doctor didn’t comment. She was crouched behind a metal cabinet that would probably do little to stop a 45-caliber bullet. Her eyes were focused on the Soldier. 

“Ask him for a status report,” she said quietly. The blonde woman complied, making the Russian sound brusque. 

“I think… I think it’s busted,” said the Soldier, answering her in English, and for a second he sounded so normal… so like himself— like _John_— that Darcy felt a glimmer of hope… but then he launched back into a rapid stream of Russian. He lifted his flesh arm, showing the others that it was ‘operational’ again, his flesh hand easily manipulating the pistol. 

“_Darcy!_” It was May’s voice again, calling out to her. “Darcy Lewis! You in there?” 

“I’m here!” shouted Darcy. “They’ve got John; they did something to—” She was abruptly cut off by Kyle, who struck her across the face with his pistol, and she stumbled back to the floor, gasping from the shock of it, the pain blooming on her cheekbone. 

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” he said viciously. 

John hadn’t even turned his head to look; he was still awaiting instructions from the women. He was just standing there: patient, impassive… like some kind of grotesque, half-human wind-up toy. 

“The Soldier can take a few bullets, cover us,” said Oberly, still keeping her voice down. “Unless they shoot him in the head— but I’m fairly certain they’re unwilling to take him down, if there’s any alternative. Coulson’s got a… personal interest in him.” 

“You think Coulson’s out there too?” said Mark. 

“Will be soon, if he’s not already,” said Oberly. She nodded to the blonde. “Tell him go in front of us, draw their fire so we can get to the bolt-hole. Tell him to follow once we’re all out.” She swore then, clearly frustrated at being put in such an unfavorable situation. “Why the hell did Peck bring her back here, anyway?” 

“Panicked, I guess,” said Mark, as the blonde relayed all the commands to the Soldier, this time in Russian. “Couldn’t think on the spot.” 

Kyle said, “Ain’t gonna have that problem no more,” and the other men chuckled a little— even the guy with the busted knee— as they glanced at the mess of Peck’s brains all over the wall. 

“Knock it off,” said Oberly. “Get ready.” 

The blonde had recovered Peck’s handgun from the floor, and she passed it to the Soldier, who checked it, and then stuck it in the pocket of his sweatpants on the right-hand side. 

“We still bringin’ her with?” said Kyle, tilting his head toward Darcy. “Pain in the ass, if you ask me.” 

“I want her,” said Oberly. “He needs to be the one to put her down— when he’s in crisis, doubting everything. So he can blame himself, instead of us, when he realizes what he’s done.” 

Mark shook his head as he stood up. “Man, that’s fucked up.” 

“It’s effective,” said Oberly, sounding annoyed. 

Nobody doubted it: rumor had it that Oberly had put down her own soulmate, as part of a loyalty challenge. The woman had a reputation for being… chilly. 

She straightened up. “Everyone ready?” 

There’d been no further shooting, no more attempts at communication from May. Everyone was standing up, Mark helping the injured man, slinging one of the guy’s arms around his shoulders to help him walk. The blonde reached up and felt her broken nose, let out a breath, shutting her eyes for a second, and then nodded. Ready. 

“All right,” said Oberly. “Let’s do it.” She nodded to the blonde. “Tell him to go.” 

* * *

May had kept quiet— strategizing— after Lewis had conveyed that snippet of information about John: that he’d already been compromised somehow. It was exactly what they’d been trying to avoid, and even though she didn’t have any details, she was pretty sure she was in over her head… 

She heard the sound of the elevator doors opening in the hallway behind her, and she moved to a more secure position, in case the hostiles had called in reinforcements… 

She pressed her lips together, let out an almost-silent breath through her nose, readying herself as she raised the pistol… 

And then lowered it when she saw Phil round the corner, gun drawn. He took up a position opposite hers, leaving the doorway clear behind them. 

“Glad you could make it,” she said, keeping her voice low. 

“What do we got,” said Coulson. 

“Unknown number of hostiles, holed up in the machine room; they’ve got Lewis and Brennan, and she managed to yell out that they’d done something to him…” 

“Something?” he said. 

“Something. They shut her up before she could say more. I’m guessing it’s nothing good. I got one of them in the knee, but other than that, we don’t have much to go on…” 

“You notify Maria?” he said. 

“Allison’s on it, but I wouldn’t count on trusting anyone else until—” 

The rest of her statement was cut short when Coulson hissed, “They’re coming out.” 

He had his back against the side of a shelving unit, and he edged out just a fraction of an inch, checking, and was immediately met with a series of gunshots which narrowly missed their mark as he whipped back behind the safety of cover, and dropped down low, into a crouch. 

“Oh boy,” he said, and his eyes flicked to May, who was huddled behind a workbench. She took her own quick look. 

“He’s coming,” she said. “Brennan. Straight for us. What do you want me to do? Do we try to stop him?” 

He only thought about it for a couple of seconds. “We owe it to him,” said Coulson. “Can’t let them take him…” 

“Okay, then,” said May, getting his meaning. She didn’t want to kill the guy, but maybe they could take him down, force the others to leave him behind… 

They locked eyes for a moment, and then they both shot out of their spots at once, getting off a few rounds each amidst a hail of bullets as they switched places, moving erratically, and Coulson could feel something tug on the sleeve of his suitcoat: a slug passing through the fabric, missing his flesh by a scant centimeter… 

The rest of the hostiles were spilling out of the machine room behind Brennan, firing when they could, hugging the far wall as they headed toward the exit to the supply hold. From there, they could take a vehicle through the subterranean roadways to one of the exits on the far side of the of the property… 

“Again,” said Coulson, and they sprang into the line of fire once more, and this time May knew at least one of her shots had connected, even as both Brennan and a few of the hostiles returned fire. She’d seen Lewis at the tail-end of the group, being pulled along by Kyle Warner, the man she’d disciplined along with Brennan for the altercation in the gym… 

There was an odd sound, like a grunt and then a sigh, and May chanced a look. 

Brennan had stopped, about thirty feet away, pausing his creepy, robotic march toward them. He’d been hit in his upper right chest, and judging by the looks of it, stood a good chance of suffering a collapsed lung. He was looking down at the wound, palpating the entry point with his prosthetic fingertips as the blood spilled out of him. 

“Definitely compromised,” said May, ducking fully behind the shelving unit again. “And definitely enhanced. He shouldn’t be standing.” 

“He’s too good,” said Coulson, breathing heavily. “Too strong. He’ll kill us both if we stay here.” 

“Agreed,” said May. “Any more ideas?” 

He didn’t answer her— just called out, loudly: “Sergeant Barnes! Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes!” 

May risked another look. Brennan was looking their way, but he wasn’t listening to them: someone— a woman— was barking out orders in Russian, and Brennan lifted his pistol and began to advance on their position again: steadily, like a machine. 

May was creeping to the other end of the shelving unit, while Coulson got off a few more shots, drawing the man’s fire. She came around the other side, almost flanking Brennan, and she got two quick shots in: one in his shoulder, then down to the knee. She was about to get in a third when she felt the hard slap of a bullet in her bicep, the hot pain making her cry out even as she swung around to return fire, aware of Coulson putting more bullets into Brennan, the man still advancing at a deliberate pace: like something out of a horror show, never stopping… 

The man dragging Lewis along— Warner— was the one shooting at her, his aim poor with Lewis tugging on him… 

May ducked once and then returned fire— got him right in the forehead; saw his head snap back, while Lewis dropped to the floor behind him, trying to protect herself. She couldn’t see Brennan anymore— lost him while she’d been dealing with Warner. She sank down behind a heavy workbench, everything pounding, the adrenaline surging through her— feeling tingles of apprehension that he could be anywhere, come up behind her at any moment to finish her off… 

She looked down at the wound in her bicep, checking it: the bullet had gone right through the meat of her arm. No bone, thank God. It’d bleed, and hurt a lot, but she’d be okay in a few weeks… if she made it through today… 

“May?” called out Coulson, over the continuing _snap-snap-snap_ of gunfire, mostly just a stream of suppressive fire now, to keep them down, behind cover. Coulson’s voice carried an uncharacteristic note of panic: for her, not for himself. 

“I’m good,” she called out, even as she grimaced against the sharp burn of the wound— it was like a red-hot poker, boring through the muscle… 

There was some more shouting in Russian— hard to understand in the confusion, but May could make out enough to know they were telling the Soldier— _Soldat_— to retreat and cover the group, and then there was a frantic shuffling to her right, and she spun around again, stopping herself just in time to avoid shooting the hostage—Lewis— who was scrambling toward her, bent over, almost falling, her arms still bound behind her back. 

“Stay down,” said May, and she hissed from the pain as she pressed the button to release the empty mag from her pistol, pulled the fresh one out of her pocket, and jammed it into the well of the grip. “You all right?” she managed to say. 

“You kidding me?” said the girl, but then she added, “I’m not dead.” 

“You and me both,” said May grimly, and then she hazarded another look above the cover of the heavy bench. Brennan was gone: just a trail of blood on the floor to show where he’d been. “_Dammit_,” she said, emphatically, and then called out to Phil: “He’s gone,” she said, confirming what he probably already knew. 

They could hear Coulson calling in the orders to lock down all the exits, but something told May that the only people they could trust with full certainty were themselves. 

“What’s happening,” said Lewis, and May could see that she was going into shock. “Why do they want him? Why do they want John… what did they do to him…” 

“Are you hurt?” said May, ignoring the other questions. “You shot?” She dug into her pocket and pulled out her field knife, opened up the smaller blade, and cut through the zip ties holding the woman’s wrists together. 

“Shoulder hurts,” said Lewis, coughing, as she brought her hands around to her front again, massaging her wrists. “I don’t know. We gotta go after them; we gotta—” 

May checked her— pushed up the woman’s sleeve. There was a lot of blood, but it looked like the bullet had just nicked her— had taken out a long but shallow chunk of flesh on the side of her arm. There was a stack of clean work-rags on the bench, and she grabbed one, put it over the wound and placed Lewis’s hand on it, pressing down hard. 

“Keep pressure on it,” she said, “And stay here. Stay down.” She swallowed her own pain—her arm now a deep, fiery ache that was making her queasy— but she did what needed doing, standing to sweep the room, and she could see Phil doing the same on his side. 

She reached the back of the room, glancing at Warner, who was obviously dead. He was slumped over on his side about ten feet from the entrance to the machine room, the entry wound on his head a rather tidy-looking hole for what had undoubtedly led to some form of brain-soup inside. 

There was another body in the machine room— this one a lot messier: Peck had been shot at close range, the evidence of it on the wall near his tipped-over body. The room was thick with the acrid odor of blood and other bodily fluids. 

“You all right?” said Coulson, who’d come up behind her, his pistol still gripped in both hands, the barrel now lowered to point at the floor. 

“Got one in the arm,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Lemme see,” he said, and made a _tsk_ sound at the damage, and she could feel the way he wanted to ignore everything else and take care of her, but they had more urgent things to deal with, and they both knew it. 

“How’s Lewis,” he said. He holstered his gun and took off his coat, moving quickly. He ripped out a piece of the lining and wrapped it around May’s arm, tying it tightly to stop the bleeding. She allowed him to do it, knowing he’d function better knowing he didn’t have to worry about her. 

“Got a divot taken out of her shoulder. Should be fine, but she’s going into shock.” She decided to be frank. “We need to get out of here. Security was compromised, from what I can tell. And I’m pretty sure that was Oberly in there with the others, and she wasn’t acting like a hostage…” 

Coulson let out a breath and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Let’s get Lewis and get to a vehicle and we’ll go from there. We can update Maria from the road…” He was already heading out of the room, back to Lewis. 

“Phil,” she said, and he stopped, turned and looked at her, and she could see how upset he was, behind the facade… 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry we lost him.” 

He shook his head. “We never had a chance.” 

* * *

When Darcy came to, she was in the back of a moving vehicle, lying on her side across the bench-seating in the third row of what seemed to be a large SUV. Her shoulder was an itching, persistent tug of pain, and the side of her face was throbbing, where Kyle had struck her with his pistol. Someone had tied a necktie around her shoulder, looping it under her armpit. She was pretty sure Mark had shot her— or grazed her, rather— when she’d bolted away in the wake of Kyle getting it in the head. 

And then she remembered John, and she began to cry… 

“Why,” she said, sobbing it out, talking to no-one… it was like a general protest to the Universe… 

It was the only word she could say; the only one that made any sense. She could see someone turning around to look at her, from the front passenger seat. It was Melinda May, and then she remembered it: remember the shuffling, harried struggle to get to the vehicle, she and May and the other one… Agent Coulson. The guy who’d been such a dick to Jane, back in New Mexico… 

“You’re going to be fine,” said May. “We’re taking you to a safehouse; we—” 

“What’d they do to him,” she said, ignoring the woman’s words, only one thing on her mind. “Where’d they take him. Where’s John.” 

“His name isn’t John,” said May. 

“I heard… someone said— called out to him, called him—” 

“Barnes,” said May. “James Barnes. That’s his real name.” 

“James— what?” Darcy was trying to push herself up, but it was too painful, and she was too weak. “I don’t understand. What—” 

“James Buchanan Barnes,” said the man who was driving— Coulson. 

“What do you mean?” said Darcy, and she was so dizzy, and she needed a drink of water… “Why are you… is he… was he named after that other guy? The one from… Were they related or something?” 

“Not related to,” said May, her voice more gentle now. “He is.” 

Darcy felt a sick sliver of fear then, as she processed the words, and she managed to push herself up, breathing heavily. “What the fuck are you talking about?” she said. “Did you— did SHIELD… is he a clone? Is he _human?_” 

She could feel herself getting a little hysterical. “I need water. Is there any water?” And then, “He’s human. He’s gotta be human. He said my words… he said my words…” And then she was crying again, but she was angry, too, and she wanted to get out of that car, get away from these people… 

“Right here,” said May, and she unbuckled so she could reach back, cracking open the bottle of water for her, and Darcy was pushing herself up enough to accept it robotically, her right shoulder screaming as she did it. Her hand was shaking as it gripped the bottle, and she couldn’t drink any yet— couldn’t coordinate the movements, everything seeming crazy and terrible and wrong. 

She wanted it to be a dream… She’d wake up, she’d still be in John’s room, and she’d roll over in his arms— warm and quiet and slow— and tell him about the crazy, fucked-up dream… 

The pain in her arm told her otherwise. It wasn’t a dream, and he was really gone. 

“He’s human,” said May. “And… more than that.” 

“What do you mean,” she said, still stupidly holding the bottle like she didn’t know what it was. 

“We’re not sure,” said May, and Darcy saw her look across the center console to Coulson, making eye contact with him. 

“Just tell me,” said Darcy, the anger beginning to leak out. “Just fucking tell me the truth.” 

“We think he may be… something like Captain Rogers,” said May. “We weren’t sure at first, but we didn’t know what… It’s part of why we kept him here, gave him the new identity… so we could keep an eye on him, try to determine who had control over him before—” 

“Control over,” said Darcy. 

“Programming,” said May. “You could see the evidence of it, in—” 

“Does that mean his— his powers… whatever you want to call them. Are his… enhancements, are they part of…” 

Coulson spoke up now. “We don’t know; not for sure.” He seemed to hesitate then. “You said… you’re sure that… he said your words…” 

“Yeah,” she said, and she could feel herself going numb. “Yeah, he did. It was pretty obvious. My words… they aren’t ordinary.” And she flashed on it then, on the way he’d touched her words with his fingers… the naked humility on his face when he’d realized that it was true… that it was real… 

“I’m gonna be sick,” she said, and she felt Coulson pulling the big vehicle to the side of the road, and then May was outside, coming back to open the door for her, let her out, and she stumbled to the shoulder, heaving, not able to bring anything up. Coulson was there too, then, his coat gone, his white dress-shirt unbuttoned, blood on it— she realized it was probably his necktie that was tied around her shoulder. 

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t…” She dropped the open bottle, and the water spilled out onto the dusty, gravel shoulder… 

“I’m so sorry,” said Coulson, and she could hear in his voice that he was: he was sorry. 

It didn’t matter. Didn’t make a difference, didn’t change anything. John was gone. He was gone. Those awful people, they’d taken him, and— 

She was breathing heavily, and she spat into the dirt and tried to straighten up, to deal with the situation, with the only people who seemed to know what was going on, other than the monsters who’d taken him. Hurt him. Stolen him. 

“So, what,” she said, her voice breathless, almost mocking. “My soulmate is from another time? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Like Captain America?” She couldn’t look at them. “How is that even possible; how—” 

“We believe he… it seems as though he may have some version of the serum that made Steve Rogers into… into what he became,” said Coulson. “Not exactly the same, but enough to enable him to survive for years… decades… locked away in cryostasis, though we have no way to know what happened in the intervening years.” 

She was running it all through her mind, following all the paths… “So if his strength and his— if that stuff is from the serum or whatever… then why did he think—” 

“Because it’s what he was told,” said May, and she glanced at Coulson. “The people in charge determined that it was unsafe to assume he was an innocent— a noncombatant. There was always a strong chance that… well, that what happened this morning… ” 

“There was a need to control the information,” said Coulson. “Until we could determine…” 

“So you let him believe… he thought… and you knew all along that he was—” 

“It’s my belief that you said his words as well,” said Coulson, suddenly, and Darcy stepped back, and her breathing picked up along with her heart-rate as she heard what he was saying. “It seemed as though… his contact with you… he was having memories, unusual memories that he couldn’t explain. His therapist— she was—” 

“A fuckin’ nazi,” said Darcy, spitting it out. “That was her, right? The lady in the suit?” She spun around then, walking a bit farther away from the vehicle, her thoughts reeling. “He said he was having dreams… visions.” 

“Memories?” said May. 

“Maybe,” said Darcy, and then she thought of the dream he’d described— the one with his words, wrapped around his left arm, and she was suddenly filled with an anger so furious that it burned… 

“You knew?” she said, spinning around again. “You fucking… you knew all this time who he really was? And you knew that we— and you let him— you let us…” 

She was seething, and she spat on the dusty ground again, and the pain in her shoulder was like nothing compared to the pain in her heart now. 

“I’m sorry,” said Coulson. “I’m truly— I’m so sorry. Our hands were tied; we couldn’t—” 

He didn’t finish, because Darcy strode toward him with furious intent, and even though it burned like fire, she hauled back with her right fist and socked Phil Coulson in the gut as hard as she possibly could. 

“Fuck you,” she said, and then she walked on shaking legs back to the truck, climbed in, and shut the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A character in this chapter uses the adjective “oriental” to describe Agent May in his own thoughts. It’s the term people would have used in his time, and so it’s the realistic word for his thoughts at this point. He wouldn't know, yet, that in the current time it’s an antiquated and problematic term when applied to ethnicity.

She hadn’t spoken for an hour. Was trapped in some in-between purgatory of seething anger and staggering grief. She’d hoped to simply pass out and sleep the time away, but the throbbing pain in her shoulder was keeping her awake. 

She was aware of the two agents in the front: they occasionally looked back to check on her, like a pair of concerned parents— May turning her head, Coulson glancing in the rearview mirror— but she refused to acknowledge them, and for the most part, they let her be. 

Her heart was heavy. Her soul hurt. She wasn’t even thinking of herself— of her own loss; she could only think of _him_— of John, or… should she be calling him ‘James’ now? Of the sounds he’d made, the pain he’d endured when those evil fucks had taken him down, stunned him into submission… bending him— unexpectedly, if she’d understood them correctly— into some other personality… into a man who blindly followed orders. Who killed without flinching, who— 

_Maybe I_ am _scary_, he’d said. 

_Got about twenty-seven different ways to kill… with my bare hands…_

_Dreams sometimes… memories… bad shit I don’t wanna think about…_

_Don’t even know if it’s real or not…_

It was real. It’d all been real, and somewhere, deep inside the locked-up parts of his head, he must have known. Remembered. 

Meeting her had done something to him… had begun to unlock it, and… 

In a way it was her fault: whatever’d she done to him, whatever’d been happening to him… she could only assume it’d prompted those people to act; it couldn’t have been a coincidence. 

She refused to blame herself. People had known. They’d known _something_, yet they’d failed to protect him; failed to give him the dignity of even telling him who he really was… letting him decide… 

She couldn’t accept their reasoning, their excuses for not telling him. As little as she knew John, she knew enough of his character, even after such a short period of time, to bet that he would have done whatever’d been necessary to keep people safe, even if it’d meant locking himself up. They should have known that. They should have— 

It was pointless, all the ‘_should have_’. It was done: they’d taken him; he was gone. 

God only knew what was being done to him now… what he was being made to do. 

It was unbearable. 

May and Coulson were keeping their voices low as they murmured to each other, trying to decide what to do. Some of it was still filtering through, Darcy unable to block it out entirely… 

_Could go to_… 

_No; that’s too risky_… 

_What about_… 

_You realize she’s gonna be_… 

_How far away is_… 

_We’ll be driving all day and night, if_— 

“What are you talking about,” she finally said, her voice slow and dull. It felt like it was coming from far away, like some distant tape-recording of a person who only sounded like her: someone pretending to be her. “Where are we going.” 

Coulson looked at her in the rear-view mirror, and this time she met his eyes. His voice sounded firm. Assured. 

“Somewhere you’ll be safe.” 

* * *

Steven Grant Rogers— ninety-three years old, or a spry twenty-seven, depending on how you chose to measure time— was lying on his side on an uncomfortable, narrow couch in a secluded, lake-side cabin near the border. The border of what, he was honestly unaware: the men who’d left him here hadn’t been more specific than that. 

It made no difference: he may as well have been on Mars, for all it mattered. The world he’d woken up to— once he’d stepped outside the ridiculous façade they’d tried to fool him with— had been as unrecognizable to him as an illustration from one of Bucky’s pulp magazines: like something out of _Amazing Stories_, depicting the ‘world of tomorrow’. Cars, everywhere— so many cars… lights, flashing… billboards made up of moving pictures, ten stories tall… a crush of people, everything in a hurry… everything a confusion of noise and hustle and… 

The magazines had always made it out to be exciting: something to dream of, something you wished you could live to see. 

It hadn’t been exciting. It’d been terrifying. 

Everyone he’d known, gone. Or at least he’d assumed as much. Nobody would give him a straight answer about most of it, and now he was here, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, like a punishment, after he’d broken down their wall and run through the streets like a madman. 

They’d left him here to convalesce. To ‘adjust’. 

Adjust to what? To being alone? He was like a castaway in time, never able to return to his own world, his own people… Could a man adjust to that? He supposed he’d have to, or go crazy. 

Maybe going crazy would be better. If he could stop having to feel… 

At least it was quiet here. Nothing too unfamiliar about a house made out of wood, surrounded by trees and edged by water. At least all of that was real. He’d been avoiding the futuristic stuff, like the touchscreen by the front door, that he’d been told was for operating the security system. Then there was the fancy electronic thing on the desk: they’d shown him how he could talk to people, face-to-face, on a screen like a mini movie-theater… _in real time_… yeah, he wasn’t ready for that. 

Nobody he wanted to talk to, anyway. Nobody left alive… 

Maybe if he coulda talked to Peggy… seen her face… heard her voice, no matter how altered by time— even if she couldn’t remember him… 

He was opening and shutting the hinged cover of an ancient military-issue Lensatic compass that had once held a picture of the most beautiful woman on the planet: Margaret “Peggy” Carter. His soulmate. 

No face looked back at him from the depression in the metal lid of the compass, as it once had. Seventy years in the ice had completely destroyed even the tiniest remnant of the thin circle of newsprint that’d once captured her pretty face. All he had left was the memory. 

He flicked it open and shut again. 

She was still alive; they’d told him that much. An old woman now, in a home for elderly folks, sick people. Maybe unrecognizable. A great-grandmother, probably. They hadn’t given him any details about that stuff, but he hoped… He could only hope she’d found happiness after he’d gone into the ice… 

It was so hard to believe: impossible to wrap his head around; in his own timeline— the part he’d been conscious for— that single kiss they’d shared had only been a few weeks ago. He could still remember the feel of her lips, the warm tingle that’d spread through his entire body… and then he’d been whisked away, hitching a ride on the undercarriage of the _Valkyrie_, leading to the fight of his life, and for everything he loved… stopping that abomination: the man with the red skull… and then the crash… 

At least time had burned away any physical impact of their bond. Seventy years apart would do that, he supposed. Not that he ever went through it as bad as a regular fella… he’d never been apart from her for more than a day when he was skinny— had been able to sneak in a touch of a finger here and there, or something more, like her hand sliding over to clasp his in the back of a car… and then the serum had changed him… made the pangs more like a… like an itch. A need to see her. To know she was okay. 

He’d almost been relieved— had wanted to do things right, like a gentleman. To court her proper… take it slow. If he’d known how little time they would have together, maybe he wouldn’t have… maybe he’d have let the need build and take hold, and… 

He didn’t even feel an itch anymore. Just an aching kind of sadness, that they’d never gotten to have their life together, like they deserved… and there would be no turning back the clock. This was it. 

Nobody’d had the fucking decency to be straightforward with him: to just tell him the truth, from the get-go. At least that part of the future was familiar: these military-types— SHIELD, they’d called themselves; the agency his own Peggy had helped to found, after his supposed death— they were as tight-lipped as any of the buttoned-up, reticent, ‘_that’s need-to-know, soldier_’ kinda bullshit he’d been used to navigating around in his own time… 

He’d just have to learn how to do it here as well: here in the future. If he ever got the will to get off the goddamned couch… 

He flicked the compass open again, and then shut it. 

Open. 

Shut. 

He’d been here for fifteen days. Fifteen days of listing… moving about like a wraith, from bed to couch, and then back to bed again. He stood in the shower once a day, barely washing— just letting the water run over him, thinking maybe it’d wake him up, out of this purgatory. It never did. He’d given up on shaving; what was the point? 

Fifteen days of standing like a statue, only his hand moving as he heated another can of soup and then sitting, alone, at the small, square dining table as he spooned the flavorless liquid into his body… not tasting… not seeing… not feeling much of anything at all, once the anger wore off, leaving in its wake only a deeply tired sadness, like the way he’d felt the day after Bucky fell… 

Open. 

Shut. 

His stomach was growling, and he knew it was time to make some more food for himself, but he also knew he’d resist it until it became an imperative, and so he ignored it, and for some reason his thoughts drifted to Bucky… of the two of them, lying on their backs under the stars in some complete shit-hole of a campsite, bugs crawling all over them and mud everywhere, and they’d been so fucking hungry, and Bucky had tossed him a wrapped-up slab of stale, horrible-tasting chocolate that he’d been hoarding, laughing as he’d done it: 

_Tell your stomach to knock it off, asshole, so I can get some fuckin’ sleep_. 

And he was almost tearing up then, because _God_, he missed them all. Missed them so much. Bucky… their friends, the Howlies… his girl… 

This new world had no use for him, and he had no use for it. 

Why couldn't he have just stayed dead. 

* * *

The sun had gone down and he was back on the couch— almost drifting off into sleep— when he heard the sound of a vehicle approaching, and he moved faster than he had in over two weeks: nobody was supposed to be here, not without warning like this. 

He was at the curtained window on the front side of the house, the one that looked out onto the gravel road that threaded its way around the lake. He’d jogged his way down that road once, early on, trying to burn off the sadness and frustration, until he’d reached the perimeter— the invisible laser fence that Coulson had warned him about. He didn’t know if it was meant to keep people out, or hold him in, but it was effective, either way: even with his abilities, he couldn’t push his way past it. After the initial shock that would have kept an ordinary person away, he’d tested it— tried to force a limb through— and it’d begun to flay the flesh off his hand, an injury that’d taken almost a day to recover from. 

Whoever was coming knew how to get through. He parted the fabric just slightly, and he could see them: the headlights approaching from the south. A big vehicle, coming in slow. 

He didn’t want them— whoever they were— to know he was watching, so he let the curtains fall shut again as the vehicle came out of the cover of the trees, and then he just used his ears to see: listening to it come closer, closer, and then stop, the tires crunching on the gravel just out front. A door slammed, and then another. And then, after a longer pause, a third. So, at least a couple of people— maybe more— coming to… what? 

He wondered if he should find a weapon. Forgetting, still, that his entire body was now a weapon, as effective— or more— than anything he could wield, save for his shield, which they very noticeably hadn’t left in his possession. They were probably keeping it locked up somewhere. Studying it— the unusual materials. He wondered if they’d study him, too, once they decided what to do with him… 

There was a knock on the door, and he relaxed a fraction. Assassins didn’t tend to announce themselves. 

“Captain Rogers?” 

He recognized the voice, even through the thick wooden door. It was Agent Coulson. The starry-eyed fan who’d been there when they’d thawed him out. Had been here, too: part of the small team of men and women who’d flown him here on a futuristic jet that’d felt like something out of a comic book. 

Steve had been in a haze at the time, but the man— Coulson— had seemed a decent-enough fellow. He’d been the one to take him aside— to tell him about Peggy: how she’d been the co-founder of the very organization that Coulson was now a part of. That she was still alive, but ailing. Something called Alzheimer’s. What in Steve’s day they’d called dementia. Coulson had been kind— had put a hand on his shoulder, when Steve had sagged under the weight of the news. 

He stepped to the door and unlocked it, the old-fashioned way— sliding back a thick metal bolt— and then turned the knob on the door…. 

It was Coulson, and a woman— dark-haired, oriental. Tough-looking. Another person— short, maybe just a girl— hanging back, mostly hidden, behind them. 

“We’re very sorry to drop in on you unannounced like this,” said Coulson, “but it was an emergency. May we come in?” 

“Of course,” he said, his manners taking over, and he stepped back, making room for them in the doorway. 

The two agents stepped through, but the third person hesitated; he could now see that she wasn’t a girl, but a young woman, and a pretty one. She had long dark hair, and a nice figure— _like a Coke bottle_, Bucky would’ve said. She still hung back, like she was uncertain. 

No: not uncertain. Dazed. Possibly injured. She had a necktie wrapped around one of her arms, like a makeshift field dressing. 

“You all right?” he said to her automatically, and she looked up, and he could see in her big blue eyes something that was deeply familiar to him, instantly recognizable. 

Loss. 

“Are you really Captain America?” she said, not answering his question. Her voice was quiet and the words didn’t have the breathless excitement that he was used to, with such a query. This was something else: like she was scared of something; wanted to be sure… 

“I used to be,” he said. “My name’s Steve.” 

“He’s alive,” she said then, without any other preamble. “Your friend. Jo— James. James Barnes.” 

“Darcy, come inside,” said the other woman, from inside the cabin. “Lets all sit down and—” 

“What?” said Steve, barreling over the woman’s suggestion, and he stepped outside, to get closer to the pretty girl, his bare feet oblivious to the cold ground as he stared at her face, needing her to say it again, because it didn’t make any sense— he had to have heard it wrong. 

“He’s alive,” she said again, and then she made a kind of a hiccup, and her eyes were filling with tears. “Or at least he was yesterday; we’ve been driving for so long, I don’t know…” 

“What’re you sayin’,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face, and the tears that were spilling over on it, and he didn’t understand, and he actually stepped in close and was about to put his hands on her shoulders, like he wanted to shake some sense into her— she had to be crazy— but she stepped back, evading him. 

The words came out anyway, because he couldn’t bear any more— couldn’t deal with anyone fucking with him, not about this. 

“What the hell're you tryin’ to do," he said, the words coming out harsh, angry. "Tellin’ me somethin’ like that. What the hell kinda—” 

Coulson had stepped back out— was standing to the side, looking between the two of them. “This is Darcy Lewis,” he said. “She’s…” He let out a sigh, like he was tired. “She’s Sergeant Barnes’s soulmate. He’s alive. He’s alive, and he needs our help.” 

“_What?_” 

* * *

They’d moved the discussion inside— arranged themselves around the coffee table— except for the tough-looking lady, who, after a quick detour to the bathroom to clean and change a bandage, had parked herself at the computer. She was typing away furiously at the keyboard, in spite of the obvious discomfort of what Coulson had said was a bullet-wound in her arm. 

She was talking to another agent while she typed— a serious-looking woman with dark hair, pulled back into a military-style chignon at the base of her neck; her face filled the lower-right quadrant of the screen, and she was responding to the other woman in real time, her answers clipped and professional. 

Steve had heard both of them mention _Hydra_, and under normal circumstances he would have been over there, breaking into the conversation, wanting to know why that particular organization was still a topic for discussion in the twenty-first century. 

But not now. Now, his attention was fixed on the pretty young woman who’d tipped his entire world over with a few short sentences. He’d directed her to sit down on the couch, which she did— moving slowly, like she was only half-conscious— while Coulson took one of the chairs at the dining table. Steve remained standing, his eyes on the woman. 

She had a nasty bruise on her cheek, like she’d been struck with something hard, and it was clear that her shoulder was hurting her, though she’d removed the necktie that’d been tied around it, tossing it to the side, on the couch. 

He’d offered her water, but she’d refused, just wanting to talk to him: to tell him about someone named John, the words spilling out of her in a confusion, with Coulson breaking in now and then to clarify. Both she and Coulson claimed that this ‘John’ they spoke of was actually Bucky. That she’d seen him— had been with him— less than twenty-four hours ago. 

It sounded like nonsense— like some kind of cruel stunt— but the girl’s distress wasn’t fake, nor were her injuries, or the fact that she’d shown up with two high-ranking SHIELD agents, all three of them beaten and worn from some kind of fire-fight, and the long drive that’d allegedly followed. 

Steve forced himself to tamp down his anger: tried to listen to what she was saying, as crazy as it sounded. He was well aware that his own story would have sounded just as ludicrous, if he hadn’t actually lived it himself. 

They were trying to explain that Bucky had come through time, just like him: barely aged, and enhanced— with abilities similar to Steve’s. His story wasn’t one of a dreamless sleep in the ice, though: it was a dark stretch of time… of unknown pain and captivity, and almost a complete loss of memory. Some form of brainwashing, from what they could tell. And now he’d been taken captive again. 

He couldn’t reconcile any of it with what he already knew— what he’d seen with his own eyes, the memory burned into him like a horror-show… worse than any nightmare, because it’d been the most real thing he’d ever experienced: Bucky falling… screaming… dying… 

No way he could have survived… 

The story he was hearing now was too incredible to accept, and he wanted to push it away, afraid to believe any of it. Afraid to hope, when it’d been so hard to accept the truth of his death in the first place… 

Still, some part of him wanted to believe. Desperately wanted to accept that it was true, even if that truth meant that Bucky had suffered unknowable hurts— even the loss of his own identity— in some kind of prolonged and brutal captivity… 

The woman was still talking. Needing him to hear her. Needing him to _believe_. 

“John, he—” She stopped, wiped her face with her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I keep calling him John…” 

Steve stood up and grabbed the box of paper tissues that were on the coffee table, handing them over to her. He’d been making good use of them himself. Awfully wasteful, if you asked him— all that paper— but it seemed that handkerchiefs had gone out of style at some point in the last seventy years… 

“Why ‘John’?” said Steve. “Is that the— is that what his captors called him?” 

“No, that was us,” said Coulson. “SHIELD. We gave him a new identity— something to move forward with, so—” 

“They lied to him,” said the woman, interrupting him. 

Steve looked at her appraisingly. It was the first hint he’d had that things weren’t entirely copacetic between the three of them, and for some reason it made his inclination to take her seriously go up just a notch. 

“They knew exactly who he was,” she continued, ignoring Coulson’s attempts to break in, to explain. “But they kept it from him, for their own selfish, bullshit reasons. Made up this fake name: John Brennan.” 

Coulson was speaking again— making an attempt to defend the agency’s decision— but Steve didn’t hear any of it. He hadn’t heard a thing since the woman— Darcy— had said that name: 

“John Brennan,” he said, repeating it, and the shock must have come through in his voice— shown on his face— because Coulson immediately ceased his own dialogue to question Steve, all business: 

“You know that name,” he said. “How?” 

“Well, it was— oh my God.” He was staring at Darcy like he’d seen a ghost, and then he turned away, paced in a circle. Stopped, looking at her again. 

They were all watching him, wondering— even the agent at the computer had paused her typing to stare at him. 

“It’s true, then,” he said, his voice soft now. “You really are— oh my _God_…” 

“What are you—” started Coulson, but Steve ignored him, his eyes only on the blue-eyed woman. On Darcy Lewis. 

“John Brennan,” he said, staring right into her eyes. “_Whoa there, cowboy_.” 

She was staring back at him, and he could see the moment when it connected— confirming it. 

“Yeah,” she said, just a whisper, her voice trembling. “That’s it. That’s what I—” 

“Oh my God,” Steve said again. “You’re really her; you’re— Sweetheart, I— and he said yours?” 

“Yeah,” she said again, and there were more big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “Yeah.” It seemed like all she was able to say, obviously overcome with emotion, and she took a moment, pulling more tissues out of the box, to wipe her nose. 

She sniffled and looked up him again, and it was like nobody else was in the room anymore: it was just the two of them, eyes locked. “Can you— will you help me find him?” she said. “He’s in trouble; he—” 

“Sweetheart,” he said, and he knew his own eyes were glassy with tears, but he’d never felt less weak in all his life. “If Bucky’s really out there… and for the first time tonight, I’m actually believin’ it’s true…” 

He shook his head, his voice furious with conviction. “If Bucky’s still out there, ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me but death itself.” 

* * *

He was standing out by the vehicle, talking to Coulson. Agent May had already said her goodbyes and gotten back into the truck, eager to get a move on. 

“I’m sorry we have to leave you like this,” Coulson was saying. “But we need to get back, need to help with the investigation. We just had to— it wasn’t safe for her, considering—” He was having trouble expressing it. “We owed it to her. And to him, to keep her safe.” 

“It’s all right,” said Steve. “I’m glad you brought her here.” 

Coulson smiled, something sad in it. “For the record,” he said, “I’d like you to know… I was against it from the start. Thought he had a right to know everything, from the moment we—” 

“Let’s not worry about that now,” said Steve. “We need to focus on how to get him back.” 

“Agreed,” said Coulson, and he sighed. “I promise you, we’re going to do whatever we can to locate the people who took Barnes. I have a lot of technology at my disposal, and I intend to make use of it…” 

He stuck out his hand, and Steve shook it. 

“We’ll be in touch,” said Coulson, and then his face sobered. “Remain vigilant. This location is known to few, but I have to assume they’ll be looking for her; she’d be a valuable tool, for—” 

“She’ll be safe here with me,” said Steve. “Nobody’s gonna touch a hair on that girl’s head— not if I have anything to say about it.” 

“You know the protocol, if you need to bug out…” 

Coulson had walked him through it: how to get out, should the need arise— and Steve wondered what had changed since the last time, that he trusted him with that choice. Maybe it was just guilt. A desire to give him the kinds of choices he hadn’t given Bucky. 

“Not sure I understand how all of it works,” said Steve, “But yeah. I know what to do.” 

Coulson nodded and then got into the truck and pulled the door shut, and then they were reversing out of the drive, Steve watching as they drove away, disappearing back into the dark, until he could no longer see the lights through the cover of the trees. 

He stood there, alone, just listening to the crickets for a minute, as he looked up at the stars, the sliver of the moon, high overhead, in the chilly night air. 

_He’s alive_, his brain said. Somewhere out there, Bucky was alive. Maybe looking up at the same moon. His brain said it again: _Alive_. 

* * *

“Can I make you something to eat?”

Buck’s girl— Darcy— was lying on her side on the couch, her eyes staring at nothing, in a kind of facsimile of his own body, earlier that day, on that very same couch. He didn’t think she was going to answer, but then he saw her eyes move fractionally. 

She blinked and took a breath. 

“Can’t imagine eating,” she said. “I know I must be hungry, but—” 

“Hey, believe me,” he said. “I know. But you gotta eat. When’s the last time you had something?” 

“Don’t know,” she said. “They got me a sandwich from a gas station… threw most of it out.” 

He headed over to the cupboards and pulled out a couple of cans. “Chicken noodle okay?” 

“Yeah,” she said, her voice small. “I guess.” 

They were both quiet for a spell, while he got out a soup-pan and a wooden spoon, opened up the two cans and dumped the slop into the pan, and added two cans of water. He pushed the button on the electric stove, and waited for the burner to heat up. 

“Tell me about him,” she said, and her voice sounded so small… 

“What do you wanna know?” he asked, as he stirred the concentrated soup and water together. 

“Anything,” she said. “I just wanna… I wanna know him. We only had— I only knew him for two weeks, before—” 

Steve sighed, as he tried to think of something— some way to sum up what Bucky meant to him: why he’d been so special. It was impossible. 

“He was loyal,” he finally said, as a start. “And he was a good time. Funny. Always good at cheerin’ people up. Even when everything around us was miserable…” 

He smiled to himself, thinking about his friend. It was the first time he’d let himself do it, when it didn’t have to hurt so bad, and the reality of that— of realizing that he didn’t have to shield himself from it anymore— hit him like a tangible force… 

“What else,” she said, prompting him, when he’d gone quiet for too long. 

“He, uh… he was good at anything he tried,” said Steve. “Schoolwork, stickball… dancin’… talkin’ to girls…” _Even killing_, his mind supplied, but he didn’t tell her that. 

He turned to look at her then, his spoon hovering over the pot. “You look like them,” he said. “The girls he liked to take out dancin’. It’s like…” He smiled. “Like he already knew, somehow… like he was lookin’ for you…” 

His face got serious then, and he could feel the emotion coming up, like a surge… 

“God, he was— he was so excited to meet you— said you sounded like his kinda gal. Perfect for him.” He wiped at his cheek and stuck the spoon back in the pot, stirring as the soup came to a simmer. “The name was confusin’, though. We couldn’t figure that one out. Figured it musta been a misunderstanding, or—” 

He chuckled once— a wry sort of sound. “Never coulda predicted that one— that it was a secret identity, made up by a buncha spies from the future.” He shook his head and turned the heat down on the soup so it wouldn’t boil over. “God, Bucky woulda loved the sound of that— like somethin’ outa some dime-store novel. Never woulda believed it, of course; who would? I can’t even believe it, and I’m livin’ it…” 

He let go of the spoon, just let it sit in the soup, while he wiped his face again. 

“Broke my heart, when he fell,” he said. “Broke for both of you, even though I didn’t even know who you were… just the— knowin’ you were still out there, somewhere… waitin’ for him… that you’d never get to know…” 

He looked over at her again, and she was crying again, but that was okay— he was, too, and it felt all right— at least he could share it with someone for once, this grief over Bucky. 

“He’s different now,” she said softly. “He’s not— he doesn’t smile. I can’t imagine him… dancing. He’s— whoever had him before… I don’t know if they were the same people, or… they must’ve hurt him real bad.” She sucked in another sob, swallowing it down. “He’s missing an arm.” 

He shut his eyes for a moment, feeling the pain of it, and the guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he turned off the stove, turned to look at her. “I shoulda tried harder to find him; I shoulda—” 

“No,” she said, and then she was sitting up a little on the couch, and her hair was all messed up on one side, from lying on the couch. He found his face softening as he looked at it, because it was just so real and human, and that warmed him somehow— helped him believe it: She was really there. Alive— human. A real person. Bucky’s girl. 

“Don’t you get it?” she was saying. “It was always meant to be this way. If you’d gone back for him, he’d be dead by now, or like… a billion years old. He never would have lived to meet me. It’s crazy, but… somehow Fate already knew— knew he was meant to get that made-up name… meant to go through whatever hell he— God, it’s so fucked up.” 

Steve almost smiled at her crude words as he turned back to the cupboards, got down two bowls to divide up the soup. He wondered if Bucky’d had enough time to at least get to know her a little— to appreciate her salty language. He woulda liked it. He’d always liked a tough-talkin’ girl… 

He carried the steaming soup-bowls over to the little dining table, one by one, and then ripped off some paper towels to make napkins, placing one next to each bowl, and lay a metal spoon on top of each. 

“Come on and eat something, sweetheart,” he said. “I know it ain’t easy, but…” 

She obeyed, pushing herself up off the couch, and then shuffled her way over to the table. He’d pulled out a chair for her, and she sat down heavily in it. She stared at the soup bowl for a moment and then looked up at him, and it was the first time he saw the hint of anything other than sadness on her face. 

“You remind me of him,” she said, softly. “You talk the same. Your words, the… I don’t know. You have a way about you.” 

“Grew up in the same neighborhood,” said Steve, as he took the seat opposite her. 

“His words,” she said. “Were they— like this? Wrapped around?” She had her hand around her left bicep, just above the elbow joint. 

“Yeah,” he softly. “Didn’t you—” 

“The arm he lost,” she said. “Didn’t remember how. Didn’t remember his words. That’s why we weren’t sure…” 

“Then how—” 

“He had a dream about it,” she said. “He didn’t know if it was real, or…” She stirred at her soup, but didn’t try eating any of it. “Tell me more about him,” she said. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “As long as you’re workin’ on that soup, I’ll tell you anything you wanna know about my friend Bucky Barnes.” 

“Okay,” she said, and she even smiled a little— one of those sad smiles that people wore when they were in shock. 

Steve had seen it plenty, in the men he’d served with… faces so worn down from grieving, that muscle memory took over, and old expressions became automatic— something the brain made the body do—like maybe pretending you could still smile would keep you from flying to pieces… 

She did as he said: picked up her silverware, and spooned up some of the soup— her big, plump lips blowing on it to cool it down— and so he began to talk. He told her everything he could think of, about James Buchanan Barnes: the man he’d loved like a brother. 

And it felt so good. Felt like the weight of all those years in the ice was falling away as he told her about Bucky. All the things he’d wanted to say, to remember, to think about when all his heart had been able to do was push away the memories because they’d hurt too much. It was a relief to finally let it all out— to share it with someone who felt the same way. 

And he realized, then, that the only person in the entire world who could ever love Bucky as much as him, excepting Bucky’s own ma— God rest her soul— was sitting right across the table from him, like God Himself had delivered her down, so they could be together— work together to find him— and for the first time since he’d come out of the ice he felt a sense of grace… 

* * *

She’d insisted on helping him clean up the few dirty dishes— washed, dried and put away— and then she’d told him she was exhausted and wanted to sleep. Try to, at least. She’d offered to take the couch, but he’d insisted she take the one bed for herself. 

Now, lying on the couch in the dark, he could hear the muffled sound of her crying coming from behind the closed door to the bedroom, and he swore to himself— swore to Bucky, too, wherever he was— that he was gonna take care of this girl. He was gonna take care of her, and he was gonna find Bucky, and he was gonna see to it that at least someone in this life got their goddamned happily-ever-after, and God help anyone who got in his way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone fearing (or hoping) that Steve is gonna 'comfort' Darcy, Eddie Fisher-style— that is NOT going to happen, so stop worrying (or hoping).
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  



	18. Chapter 18

Steve opened up the front door of the cabin and stepped out onto the stoop. The sun was already getting low in the sky, and the temperature was dropping— not that it bothered him any, but he knew Darcy had to be getting cold. She’d been out there most of the day, sitting on the ground at the edge of the lake. 

“Hey, uh… I boiled up some of those spaghetti noodles,” he called out, pitching his voice so that she could hear him. “And there’s some tomato sauce…” 

She’d slept late— almost past noon— and then had trudged out to the main room of the cabin, all rumpled-up, still in the same clothes she’d arrived in. She’d said very little, and after picking at a bowl of dry corn flakes and the lukewarm cup of coffee he’d set in front of her, she’d thanked him for the food and had gone outside… 

Every time he’d looked out the window to check on her, she’d been in the same spot: just sitting there, staring out at the water, picking absently at the grass. 

Now, as he stood there in the doorway, hearing the echo of his own voice in his head, and getting no response from her, part of him wondered if he’d even said the words out loud, or if he’d just imagined it. 

He’d known her for little more than a day, but in a way it felt like they could have been there for millennia— some alternate reality where they were trapped there together, living each day just like this: silent fixtures in each other’s dream… a shadow-plane where the only solids were the cabin, the lake, and the trees… and they were the ghosts that wandered upon it, haunting the landscape with their grief… 

“Darcy? Sweetheart?” 

He stepped off the stoop, leaving the door open behind him, and walked down the little slope to join her. It was chillier than the day before; he could feel winter coming on in the air… 

She still hadn’t answered, and he sat himself down beside her, taking a moment to just be quiet there with her. The surface of the lake was smooth… dark. Like it was holding onto secrets… things best left buried. When he finally glanced over to her face, he could see that it was stained with fresh tears. 

It was still so raw for her: she hadn’t gotten to the point of numbness, like Steve had, in the weeks he’d had to process the truth of his situation… to sink into depression. He’d been in some faraway place— untouchable— until yesterday, when, with their arrival, and the incredible news she’d brought, she’d awakened something inside him that he’d thought dead… 

“We’re gonna find him,” he said, softly. 

He instinctively reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, and she finally reacted to his presence, flinching away before he could make contact. He pulled back immediately, apologizing. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—” 

She looked at him then, using the back of her hand to wipe off her cheeks, sniffing indelicately. “It’s not you,” she said, and she cleared her throat, her voice rough from disuse. “It’s not— it’s something that happened to me. After he said my words. It’s like… I get sick. Sick to my stomach, if another man…” 

“Oh,” he said. “Okay. I’ll, uh… I’ll try to remember not to get too close.” He was quiet for a moment and then he shook his head. “I gotta say… that’s a pretty crummy gift, you ask me.” 

“Right?” she said, and she made a scoffing sound. “Like, I could’ve gotten nerves of steel, or the ability to instantly metabolize junk food, but no…” She sighed, dropping her gaze to the ground between her bent legs. “It’s more like a curse. I mean…” It sounded like she was still fighting back tears… “I could really use a hug right now…” 

His eyes were soft as he looked at her. Wishing he could comfort her, somehow. Maybe just talking about it would help. 

“Buck— did he have the same—” 

“No,” she said. “I’m pretty sure his was like… he was remembering things. Having dreams, or… I dunno, visions? Memories of stuff from before. Or he’d just space out, in the middle of a conversation. Like he was dissociating, or… I mean, one time I saw him fall over out of nowhere, out in the desert. Like, I thought maybe he was narcoleptic, or…” 

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know what that means.” 

She smiled a little. “I wouldn’t either, but I saw it in a movie once. It’s where people fall asleep at weird times, against their will…” 

His eyebrows pinched together, making a little vertical dent in the skin between them. “Yeah,” he said. “That… he definitely didn’t have that before.” After a pause, he said, “Aren’t most gifts supposed to be… I dunno…” 

“Nicer?” she said, almost joking. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I was expecting something more… enjoyable I guess? At least his was more… I can see how it could have helped him, if…” 

She couldn't even say it out loud today: _if they hadn’t taken him_. 

“But at the time,” she went on, “It just seemed like he was… mentally unstable or something. I mean, I guess he was. But he thought it was like… he thought it was just PTSD or…” 

“I don’t know what that is,” he said. 

Darcy found that she liked it: that lack of ego, his willingness to admit he didn’t know all the same things she did… rare, in a man… 

“Oh,” she said. “Um… like… what’d they call it before? A soldier thing…” 

He shook his head, not sure what she meant, and then she got it, remembering the outdated term: 

“Shell-shock?” 

“Oh, right,” he said. “Is that what he…” 

“Probably… like, that was part of it. I mean, how could he not be, after… but the way Coulson was talking, I think they let him believe that was the reason for _all_ of it. For anything weird that came up. Anyway, we sure as hell didn’t think it was a bond-gift or anything— not until that last day when he was like, _maybe_… trying to understand what was happening between us…” 

She looked over at him again. “Did you and…” 

I took him a couple seconds to figure out what she was asking. “Peggy,” he said softly. 

“Peggy,” she repeated. “Did you guys get any…” 

“Not that I know of,” he said. “Mighta been masked for me, with the serum. She never noticed nothin’. We didn’t mind. Was good enough just… havin’ someone. Hearin’ her say my words…” 

She was fidgeting, picking at the grass between her legs, and she ripped off a few more blades… looked at them as she scattered them back onto the ground with her fingers. 

“John—” she started, and then she breathed out and edited: “_Bucky_. He didn’t even know I said his words. He didn’t get to have that moment.” 

There was a bitterness in her voice. “It wasn’t until the end, like I said… when he was trying to make sense of it— like, okay, maybe it’s _possible_— but I could tell he didn’t really believe it.” 

She looked up and almost smiled. “He wanted to be with me anyway.” 

Steve smiled back, just a small one. “Course he did.” 

“I mean, it’s dumb to get all mushy over it _now_,” she said. “It’s not like he was being romantic. He really… I mean, in his own way, he must’ve been feeling it. The pull.” She sighed. “It’s so obvious now, in hindsight. Maybe if those assholes hadn’t _lied_ to him…” 

He could tell how angry she was, beneath the sadness, and he didn’t blame her. He was angry too. 

“The visions,” she said. “The dreams— whatever you wanna call them. It was… confusing for him. I think a lot of it was scary, like remembering bad things he’d done, or stuff that was done to him, but he didn’t know which parts were real. I guess maybe all of it was.” 

She looked over at him again, because he’d gone quiet. His head was bowed, and he looked so sad… Like he hated having to think about it, almost as much as she did: all the horrible things that John— that _Bucky_ must have gone through, all those years… 

“It wasn’t all bad,” she said. “He said you were there. In his visions.” 

He’d lifted his head, but didn’t respond. Was staring out at the lake. 

“He was so confused by it.” She chuckled a little, half-heartedly. “Like, why the fuck is Captain America in my dreams? He said, ‘_I think he’s tryin’ to tell me something_.’” 

His face made a half-smile, thinking about it: about visiting Bucky in his dreams… 

“Maybe I was,” he said, and then he looked over at her— at her puffy, tired eyes— and he knew the hurt was showing on his face as well. “He didn’t remember me at all?” he said. “I mean, that we knew each other?” 

She shook her head. “He didn’t remember anything. I mean, I guess he was just starting to, but… the day he said my words? He told me the only thing he knew for sure was that his name was _John_.” She made a derisive sound. “And now we know that’s a lie too, just like everything else…” 

“Maybe—” He wasn’t sure if it’d be a comfort, but… “Maybe whatever you did… the gift… maybe it’s helpin’ him now, wherever he is. Maybe it’ll keep givin’ him memories… keep healin’ him, so he knows who he is— so he doesn’t forget this time. Maybe that was the purpose of it. Maybe… maybe wherever he is, it’ll be _you_ he dreams about this time… keepin’ him strong…” 

“Maybe,” she said, and then she picked up a small rock and tossed it into the lake. “Or maybe it’ll just make them work even harder, to burn it all out of him.” 

They both watched the ripples on the lake: the expanding shock wave of concentric circles, working their way out from the point of impact on the water. They spread out until they vanished, one by one, into the muddy banks of the lake, and then the surface was smooth once again. 

“Come on and eat something,” he said, standing up, and he instinctively held out his hand to help her up. He drew it back again, apologizing, when he remembered that she couldn’t touch him… 

“Sorry,” he said. “That’s gonna be a hard habit to break.” 

“God, don’t,” she said, pushing herself up. “Don’t try to break it, on my account.” She paused to brush the dirt off her butt. “Don’t stop being a gentleman,” she said, as she followed him back up to the house. “The twenty-first century needs more of those…” 

* * *

After dinner, Darcy sat down at the computer screen, and logged into the link with SHIELD, initiating a video chat with Agent May— she and Coulson had driven all night and day, and had just made it back to the base in the desert. 

May was only able to give her the most general of updates, but it was better than nothing; Darcy got the feeling May was breaking numerous regulations by telling her anything at all. 

The small group that had escaped— the ones who’d taken John— had gotten away cleanly: no trail to follow, no clues left behind. Everyone at the base— all personnel— were being looked at, hard; the entire security team had been taken into custody by Agent Hill within an hour of the attack. They were all being thoroughly questioned, based on May’s belief that at least some of them were directly involved, but so far, there wasn’t anything useful to report. Either that, or May was unable— or unwilling— to share what they’d learned. 

“Is there some way I can contact Jane?” said Darcy. “Jane Foster?” 

“You can,” said May, “But run it through me. No direct contact. If they’ve investigated you further— and I’m willing to bet they have— then they certainly know of your connection to her. They may have someone watching her, hoping to intercept anything incoming from you— to narrow down your location. We can assure your communications are private if you send them here, first, and I’ll relay them. It won’t be real-time, but at least you can let her know you’re all right. But don’t use the main hub; send it to my private channel.” 

“Okay,” said Darcy. “What about Jane? Is she in danger?” 

“I don’t think so,” said May. “We, uh… we’ve had a couple of agents keeping an eye on her for some time, and we’re going to ask them to step it up— take a more active role in watching over her.” 

“You’ve been spying on her?” said Darcy, bristling. 

“It’s standard procedure,” said May, sounding a little irritated, defensive. “For anyone who’s been… involved in an event like the one in New Mexico.” She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, but try to see it from our point of view: her soulmate is an alien, for one; and her research— Surveilling her is…” She pressed her lips together and changed what she’d started to say. “I’m trying to be completely transparent with you, because I want you to know you can trust me. Me and Phil.” 

“Are you going to tell her? That she’s being watched?” 

“We will,” said May. “You have my word. We want her to know what the potential threat is, so that she can take her own precautions.” 

Darcy could still feel the anger roiling through her after she ended the chat session. “Fuckers,” she said, under her breath, as she pushed back, away from the desk. She exhaled roughly, slumping into the seat-back. 

“You all right?” said Steve, from where he was sitting on the couch. He’d been trying to focus his attention on _The Penguin History of the Twentieth Century_, a thick, almost thousand-page paperback tome. He’d thought the title an odd one until he realized that ‘_penguin_’ referred to the publishing house. 

“Think I might take a shower,” said Darcy. “I know I smell.” 

“Hasn't bothered me none,” said Steve. 

“I’m starting to bother myself,” she said, and pushed herself up. In truth, she didn’t really care how she looked or smelled at this point, but she was hoping the shower would calm her down a little. She felt like punching something again. That one sock to Coulson’s gut hadn’t been enough to assuage the resentment she bore against SHIELD— not by a longshot— and the conversation with May hadn’t helped. 

“There’s all kinds of clothes in that closet in the bedroom,” said Steve. “Guess they keep a stock of various sizes for whoever might be needin’ the place…” 

“Thanks,” she said. 

She got up and went into the bedroom, found some clothes that looked like they might fit— just some basic athletic-wear: sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a hoodie; underpants and a spandex sports-bra— and took them with her into the little bathroom. She stripped off her dirty clothes robotically while the shower heated up. 

It hit her, just as she stepped into the warm spray: the last time she’d done this— the last time she’d taken a shower, or even just been naked— she’d been with _him_. 

She stood beneath the shower-head, letting the water drench her hair, her hands smoothing the wet strands back as her mind drifted into the past— remembered how it’d felt in his little shower-stall, their bodies pressed together in the hot, misty air… how they’d cleaned one another carefully, and then paused, lingering… just stood there in the heavy steam, holding onto each other… 

She shut her eyes, almost able to call up the feel of it: the solid comfort of his body, the scrape of his beard beneath her fingertips… her lips on his chest… 

He’d been so emotional… 

She cried a little as she rinsed off, aching with the need to know he was safe, wherever he was… that they weren’t hurting him… that he wasn’t suffering… 

She was reaching for the hot-water knob, about to turn it off, when she suddenly stopped, frozen: the realization hitting her— 

It hadn’t even occurred to her until now, but it should have. She was going to get sick, and soon. In less than a week now, most likely. 

She didn’t have one of his sweaty undershirts to huff this time, and she was pretty sure the cabin didn’t come stocked with sex toys along with the supply of sweatpants and hoodies— not that the toys had helped all that much anyway, the first time around. 

How in the hell was she meant to get through it? And how the fuck was she supposed to go through something like that with Steve Rogers hanging around? She didn’t want him seeing her like that. She didn’t want _anyone_ seeing her like that. 

Maybe she could get away: go sweat it out in a motel, like a junk-sick addict… 

She turned off the water and stepped out, dried off. Put on the clean clothes, and wrapped a towel around her head. 

Steve was still reading the book on the couch when she returned to the livingroom. She stopped just past the doorway, staring at the back of his head without speaking or stepping further into the room… wondering how she should broach it. 

“Feelin’ better?” he asked, without looking up from the book. 

“I think we better come up with a plan,” she said, and he stopped reading, turning around to look at her. 

* * *

She’d thought it best to just face it head-on: talk to him candidly about it, so that she wouldn’t have to hide what was happening, once it started. It was a bit awkward, talking to a national icon about how any day now she would be climbing the walls in a sex-haze of unbridled need, but there was no helping it. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t _know_ about the soul-sickness; he was a grown man. But for something that was hardly talked about openly in Darcy’s time, she could only imagine how mortifying it was for _him_, coming from a mid-twentieth-century background. To his credit, Steve simply listened, putting his book aside to give her his full attention. 

“I never went through it that bad,” he said, once she’d finished apprising him of the situation. “I heard stories, of course… saw a couple guys go through it at Lehigh… but I never— me and Pegs, we were never separated, before I had the serum. And after that, it was like…” He paused, trying to put it into words. “It was just… I had to see her. Needed to know she was okay.” 

“That’s how it was for him too,” said Darcy, softly. She was sitting next to Steve on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her. “For John.” She shook her head, hearing the mistake again. “I mean, for— _God_, it feels weird to call him anything else.” 

“You can call him ‘John’ if you want,” said Steve, his voice kind. “That’s who he was to you.” He corrected himself, immediately: “Who he _is_.” 

“It’s not his real name, though,” she said, and then she felt that anger again. She took the towel off her head and combed her fingers through her damp hair. “_God_— all those people. SHIELD. They’re all a bunch of fucking liars.” She glanced at him then. “I’m sorry; I know— I’ve read about Agent Carter, how she was one of the founders… I wasn’t saying that—” 

He put his hand out. “It’s okay,” he said, and then he smiled a little. “She probably would’ve agreed with you.” He leaned back into the couch again and let out a breath. “It’s pretty typical,” he said. “Organizations like that: military… government… That’s how they operate. Kinda goes with the territory.” 

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she grumbled. 

“No,” said Steve, and then he sat up again, looking at her intently. “No, you don’t. And I’ll tell you right now, I ain’t got any kinda special loyalty to them, in spite of their bein’ the ones to find me, to bring me back to life, and…” He shook his head. “I been thinkin’ about it, even before you got here… how they were probably expectin’ me to just fall back in line. Start takin’ orders again. And I don’t know if—” 

He was quiet for a moment, and she waited it out. 

God, but he reminded her of John. There was a quiet intensity to both of them. A seriousness that was so unlike the guys of her own era, at least the ones she’d wasted far too much time with. These guys— John and Steve: these _men_… life wasn’t just some stupid joke to them: not just a series of YouTube videos and random hookups and dumbassery, but full of things that _mattered_… real people and principles and things worth fighting for… 

“I think,” he said, “I mean… I guess that guy Coulson, and his friend: Agent May. You know, they seem like okay folks, as far as those types of people go, but…” 

“But what?” 

“I guess I don’t trust too many people in this world,” he said. “Even when they seem to mean well.” And then he let out a breath. “Maybe I never did.” 

“Who _do_ you trust?” she asked. 

“I trusted Bucky,” he said, “and Peggy.” He looked her in the eye again, held her gaze. “I trust you.” 

* * *

She managed to get a message through to Jane, via May, getting her up-to-speed on everything that’d happened. She got a reply within the hour: Jane was relieved to know she was all right, but sick with sympathy for her friend… for the terrible loss… for all the unknowns she had yet to face… 

Darcy sent back another message, this time asking for some no-bullshit advice for truly riding out the soul-sickness cold-turkey— nothing to ease her suffering, no option to just go to him, this time. 

Jane didn’t have much to add, other than her promise that it wasn’t going to kill her. “You just gotta remember that it _will end_,” she said, in her follow-up reply. “In fact, maybe you should write that down. Like, literally. On a piece of paper. Keep it by your bedside so you can look at it, when you think there’s no way you can make it through another minute. God, Darce; I wish I were there to help you.” 

“I wish you were, too,” whispered Darcy, even though Jane couldn’t hear her: it was just a recording. 

* * *

She could feel it coming on from a mile away: the waves of longing, the _need_. She tried to smile through it at first— the instinct to hide it more powerful than she’d anticipated— but Steve could see right through her feeble attempts to mask her unease… 

“You’re startin’ to feel it, aren’t you,” he said, as he crouched down next to her, where she was lying on her side, on the couch. 

“Yeah,” she said, and when a big tear rolled down her cheek, she swiped at it angrily. “God _dammit_,” she said. “I’m so fucking sick of crying.” And even as she said it, she gave into it a little anyway, letting the tears come. “I miss him,” she said. “I miss him so much. Like, it’s not even about— I just miss him. How is that even possible? I barely even knew him.” 

“That’s how it works,” he said, pushing aside the coffee table so he could sit down on the rug in front of the couch. “I remember it. Remember that feelin’. It was like… like bein’ struck by lightning. I know that sounds cliché…” 

“Do you miss her?” she said softly. 

“Every day,” he said, his voice just as quiet. “It was like… there was never any doubt. For either of us. It wasn’t somethin’ we had to think about…” 

“It was different for us,” she said. “It wasn’t a— a normal progression. He didn’t even speak to me the first time, so… I guess I must’ve triggered him, that first day…” She smiled, remembering it. “He pulled a gun on me.” 

“What?” said Steve, but he was smiling too, responding to her mood, her memory of it… 

“Yeah,” she said. “That's why the… why I said, ‘_Whoa there_…’” Another little tear broke free and crawled down her cheek as she whispered the rest: “Whoa there, cowboy…” 

“Why’d he pull on a gun on you,” he said, keeping her talking, even as his heart went out to her… sensing how the beginning of the soul-sickness was making her feel even more emotional about it… missing him… missing _Bucky_… 

“I think I startled him,” she said. “It was… it was the day they announced it. That they’d found you in the ice. He was watching it, on the TV… totally transfixed… God, maybe he was remembering something— like, just on his own— and I interrupted…” 

She wiped her face off, tried to get a hold of herself. “And then he didn’t actually say my words for like… God, it was a whole week later.” 

She laughed a little then. “I was so fucking annoyed with the way he was creeping on me… following me around. I thought he was just… I dunno. A psycho or something. A really, really, good-looking psycho.” 

Steve grinned at her description. “Yeah, Bucky lucked out in the looks department, that’s for sure.” He chuckled a little, remembering something: “The girls around town, they used to buy sketches of him offa me for ten cents each.” 

“You’re kidding,” she said, and she actually grinned back, imagining it. “What’d _he_ think of that?” 

“I think he liked it,” said Steve. “He was maybe a little vain, I guess.” 

“That’s so hard to imagine,” she said. “He… he’s so quiet, so— I wouldn’t say insecure, but… I don’t think he thinks much of himself…” 

It was getting depressing again, so she backtracked a little. “You still draw?” 

“Haven’t in a long time,” he said. “I mean, not even countin’ the… all the time I was…” 

“Maybe you should,” she said, and then she tried to make a joke. “You’re gonna need a hobby, come a few days, when things start to get really embarrassing around here. Believe me, you’re gonna wanna get the heck out of this place. Maybe you should plan on some excursions… go out and draw the lake and the trees and shit, while I’m in here being… inappropriate…” 

He was laughing at the way she was phrasing it, but he shook his head. “I’m not about to leave you here alone while you suffer.” And then his face got more serious. “I wish there was somethin’ I could do.” 

He was so earnest, but she couldn’t help chuckling a little, and when he looked up at her to see what was funny, it took him a second to figure it out, and when he did, he blushed and tried to back-pedal. “I mean, I didn’t— you know I don’t— aw, hell.” 

She was still giggling a little, tickled by his embarrassment, but the poor guy seemed mortified, still stuttering a little: 

“You know I wouldn’t… I mean, I’d never try to take advantage of—” 

“I know,” she said, finally, having mercy on him. “It’s okay. I just feel bad you have to be around when I’m acting like… _that_. It’s embarrassing. God, it was embarrassing enough the first time, even when I was alone in my apartment.” 

“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s natural, right? I’m gonna take care of you.” His hand shot out almost immediately as he said, “Not like that!” and she erupted into laughter again, but it was short-lived this time, and then her face just fell, and he said, “What is it?” 

“Can’t believe I’m laughing,” she said. “How can I laugh, when—” 

“Hey,” he said. “Don’t ever feel bad for still bein’ able to laugh, or smile, even when…” 

“But—” 

“Buck would tell you the same,” he said, cutting her off. “We been through that kinda thing before, you know. Both of us. The guilt, for catchin’ ourselves makin’ jokes, crackin’ a smile, when people are dyin’…” His gaze unfocused a little. “Sometimes you gotta be able to laugh, even when the whole world is burnin’ around you, or…” 

He looked at her again, saw that she was listening to him, taking his words seriously. 

“You know what Buck told me once, when I got real low? I remember it— we’d just come through a city that’d been bombed all to hell. So many bodies, I… I was a wreck, I ain’t gonna lie. Buck, he’d seen a lot more than me; been at it longer. He told me, ‘_Don’t let your heart die, Stevie… you might need it some day_.’” 

She smiled then, just a little, and he instinctively lifted his hand to touch hers, where it was resting on the couch: just a basic, reassuring gesture. She startled and flinched away, but it was already too late: his bare hand had brushed against her skin. 

“Aw, shit,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking; I— are you okay?” 

She was shutting her eyes, bracing for the nausea to hit her, but… it never came. She felt nothing. She opened up, stared at his worried blue eyes. 

“Nothing’s happening,” she whispered. “I’m not—” She sat up, intent. Held out her hand. “Do it again.” 

“You sure?” he said. 

“Yeah. Do it.” 

He reached out slowly, let his big hand wrap gently around her little one. 

She was watching him do it, and when she looked up again to meet his eyes, she knew she looked scared. “I’m not feeling it,” she said. “There’s… it’s nothing.” She reached out her other hand, placed it on the bare skin of his forearm, slid down to wrap her fingers around his wrist. It felt normal: just the warm, comforting feeling of another human being… 

“Fuck,” she said, letting go of him then, and she was almost shaking. “What does it mean?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “It could be anything. Maybe just—” 

“What if— maybe he’s…” She couldn’t look at him when she said it. “Maybe he’s dead.” 

“No,” he said. Shook his head once. “Don’t go thinkin’ that. There’s no reason to think— and even if there were, I’m not givin’ up. I ain’t ever givin’ up this time; not unless I know for sure.” 

He was quiet a second, thinking. “Did Coulson ever touch you? Or May?” 

She still looked frightened— still obviously running the worst-case-scenario in her mind— but she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, they must have, at least one of them; someone tied that tie around my arm when—” 

“But can you remember it?” he pressed. “Try to think; try to—” 

“I am,” she said. “Just shut up for a second.” 

Her eyes were darting back and forth, as she ran it through her thoughts, going back… 

“I can’t think of any… I remember back in the workshop— I mean, it’s all cloudy, but… when May… I think she checked my arm, put a thing on it to stop the bleeding, but… I don’t know if she actually touched my skin, or….” 

“What about the ones you know for sure,” said Steve. 

“The only people who touched me for sure— skin-to-skin— who made me feel sick were…” She looked back to him then. “Oh, wow.” 

“What?” 

“The three times I got sick… they were all…” She ran it again, wanting to make sure. “It was creepy maintenance guy, and then Mark, and then the other guy. Kurt. Kyle. Whatever. It was… they were all part of the crew that—” 

“That took Bucky,” he finished. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Do you think maybe it was like a— a warning, or—” 

“Could be. Or maybe just— anyone who’s a threat, or…” His words drifted off as he considered the possibilities. “Next time we’re around someone else, you can try it again. See if it’s just me, or…” 

She nodded, looking a little dazed, but less scared now. “Do it again,” she said. “Grab my hand. I wanna feel it again— make sure it wasn’t just a— a fluke, or…” 

“I’ll do better than that,” he said, and he pushed himself up. This time, when he held out his hand to her, she looked up at him and then placed her hand in his, and let him help her up off the couch. 

“Nothing,” she whispered, as she stood there in front of him, holding his hand. “It’s just… warm. Normal.” 

“Then c’mere,” he said, and he exhaled smoothly. “C’mere and lemme give you that hug you were wantin’. To be perfectly honest, I could do with one myself.” 

That last part did it: she moved forward, hesitantly reaching for him, and then she felt his arms move protectively around her, pulling her in and holding her to him, and it felt so good that something broke inside her again… 

He didn’t tell her to stop, or shush her, or any of that; he just held her as she cried into his T-shirt, and as he stood there, feeling her little arms wrapped around him, Steve realized that it was probably the first hug he’d gotten in over seventy years. 

It was a kind of relief to know that after everything he’d been through: the serum… the war. The crash, the long sleep in the ice… that this basic human experience— the comfort of simply being held, and its counterpart: the instinct to offer it— hadn’t been frozen out of him… stolen from him, like the life he’d been meant to share with Peggy. That he wasn't totally alone. 

If he couldn’t have the love of his life, he could at least have this— that other, fierce kind of love he’d learned through his friendship with Bucky: a loyalty that knew no limit, and the closest thing to family he was likely to ever find in this strange new world… 

* * *

He stayed true to his word: stayed inside the cabin, taking care of her as best he could, though she mostly hid out in the bedroom with the door shut, too embarrassed to let him see her when she was writhing and moaning like a unspayed cat in heat. 

He respected her privacy, though he’d made her promise to leave the door unlocked, just in case. He’d knock every now and then, leaving a plate of food and some water outside her door, and then he’d go out and stand by the lake, giving her time to open the door and get the supplies without having to see him. 

She felt like she reached the peak—the ten— faster this time, and as she lay curled up on the bed, her teeth chattering, her body bathed in sweat, she could only hope that meant the overall bout would be shorter in duration than the last time. 

She wondered if John was suffering too, wherever he was… wondered if, somewhere in that cyborg-like persona they’d triggered him into, he was feeling any need to find her— to protect her, as he had before. 

She wondered if anyone was taking care of him. 

Was he part of some evil death squad now? Killing people in cold blood, the way he’d so calmly executed Peck? Or had they locked him up in a freezer somewhere, storing him away until he was needed… 

When Coulson had disclosed to them how he’d actually been found— Darcy hearing it for the first time along with Steve… how he’d been sealed up and left for dead in a dusty old cryo tube, in some dirty, forgotten warehouse… she’d wanted to smash something. 

God, it hurt, thinking about it: that he could be cold and alone somewhere… abused, abandoned. Hidden away somewhere he’d never be found… 

She rocked, curled up on her side, her arms wrapped around her own body, trying not to make too much noise as she keened quietly through the waves of needing him… and she’d take it: she’d gladly take all this pain, a hundred times over, if only she could know he was safe… 

* * *

The fever broke on the sixth night, and she woke to feel a presence in the room with her… a weight on the bed next to her, and at first she thought it was him, and she tried to roll over— to roll into his body— but it was just Steve; he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, wiping her forehead with a cool washcloth. 

“Sshhh,” he said, softly. “It’s okay, honey. You’re good. I think you’re comin’ around the other side now. M’sorry I came in; you weren’t answerin’ my knocks. Had to make sure you were okay… You were unconscious for a while.” He sighed. “Scared me a little.” 

She shut her eyes again, but she reached out— feeling for his hand, finding his wrist— and he let her grab on… let her hang onto him in the dark. 

“Stay with me,” she said. “I won’t— I’m not gonna… just stay here, okay?” 

She heard him breathing there in the dark, and then he said, “Okay. Okay. I’m not leavin’. Try to sleep, all right?” 

He moved the rest of his big body up onto the bed, propping the pillows up behind himself so he could stretch out. She scooted over into him and wrapped her arm around his waist. He didn’t have the scent she needed, but there was still something comforting about the solidity of his body, and she sighed, relaxing into his warmth. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, already half-passed out again, and then she slipped down into a blessedly dreamless sleep, the first in days… 

* * *

Steve was gone again by the time she woke up, but he’d been right: she was coming around the other side, and she felt a little bit better with every passing hour. 

The physical symptoms receded— but in their wake, she was left with a new kind of melancholy: the idea that on some level, her body was granting her the option to be “over” him— at least physically— even as her heart continued to yearn for his safe return. And as much as it was a relief to have made it through the fever— and to know that it wouldn’t resurge unless she saw him again— it felt almost like a betrayal. 

After a couple more days of rest, she was almost herself again, and she finally emerged from the bedroom. She was sitting at the little dining table— completely gutted, but relieved to be sitting up, a crocheted afghan draped around her shoulders. She felt like she’d survived the worst virus of her life. She’d probably lost five pounds. 

Steve brought a mug of hot tea over to her and pulled out the opposite chair and sat down. 

She put her hands on the mug, just holding it, feeling its warmth, not speaking for a few minutes. When she finally figured out what she wanted to say, she just stared into the dark liquid as she spoke, unable to meet his eyes at first. 

“I don’t wanna stay here anymore,” she said. “I don’t wanna wait around for them to tell me what to do, or how to do it.” 

She looked up at Steve, who was watching her quietly. Listening. Letting her say her piece. The beard he’d started growing before her arrival had thickened while she’d been delirious with the soul-sickness, and he still hadn’t bothered to shave it. It softened his face— made him look like someone from a fairy-tale… like a gentle knight. 

“If you want to go with me, I’d love that,” she said. “But I’m going. No matter what.” She looked down again. “I know there’s probably not much I can actually do, but I can’t just— I can’t sit here like a prisoner, doing nothing.” 

She raised her eyes one more time. “I know it might be dangerous out there, but staying here… it’s just a different kind of danger. I can’t trust them. I won’t. If they can help, then great— let them help. But I’m not gonna sit here and wait for some faceless committee to decide if he’s worth—” She exhaled, the sound like a resolution. “Even if it takes ten years to find him, I want that clock to start now.” 

Steve got up, leaving the chair pushed away from the table, and for a second she thought he was angry— thought he was gonna lay it out: all the reasons she was being impulsive, naïve… 

He walked over to the desk with the computer on it— leaned over, bracing his palms on either side of the keyboard, and looked back at her. “Can you show me how to work this thing?” he said. “I wanna talk to Coulson.” 

Her shoulders lifted just a little as she sucked in a breath, trying not to let the emotion overwhelm her, and he could see it: could see her reaction to his words, the hope there— and he nodded to her, once, and said it: 

“We’ll leave tomorrow.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW: Brief description of a mugging (no weapon involved).

_Brooklyn, New York_  
_February, 2012_

Darcy’s bedroom door was open, so she could hear the rustling outside the apartment door, but she didn’t bother to get out of bed— she could already tell by the sound of the footfalls in the hallway outside that it was Steve. 

She could hear his keys jingling as he worked the lock, and he finally got it open, and then there was a thump as something heavy was set down in the entryway, and the crinkling of some plastic bags. 

She heard the door being shut, re-bolted, and chained, and then more rustling as Steve hung up his winter coat and took off his boots, and carried the plastic bags over to the little table they ate their meals at. There was a soft padding of footsteps as he approached her door, which was only pulled half-shut, and he knocked on it softly before speaking. 

“Darcy?” he said quietly. “You awake? I got some food…” 

She spent a lot of her time like this— just lying on her side in the narrow, twin-size bed in the little, windowless room she’d claimed for herself. When she wasn’t in there, she was sitting at the computer in the main room of the apartment, scouring the web for any reports of terrorist activity, anywhere in the world: looking for anything that could be linked to John, or the people who’d taken him. She only left the apartment to get food or supplies, or to draw cash from the nearby ATM. 

She knew Steve was worried about her, but he’d never once told her that she needed to go about her grief differently— and for that she was grateful. 

“Maybe in a bit,” she said. Her back was to the door, so she couldn’t see him standing there, but she heard him when he quietly walked away. After a few minutes, she could hear the sound of plates and silverware clinking, and then the rustling of the bags again as he unpacked the stuff he’d brought. 

Her stomach growled— she could smell the hot food— and she sighed and rolled over, pushed herself out of the little bed. 

Neither of them spoke as she shuffled her way out of the bedroom and over to the little table, pulled out a chair and sat down. She felt like the living dead. 

Steve had already gotten out a plate for her; he dished some basmati rice and chana saag onto it, and wordlessly slid it over to her. His own plate was already piled high with chicken tikka masala and rice. One thing Steve definitely liked about the New York of the future: the incredible variety of affordable, yet well-made, takeout options. Indian was one of his new favorites. 

“Samosa?” he asked. 

“Sure,” she said, her voice flat. 

He put one on her plate, three on his, and then finally sat down, across from her. 

“Sorry I was out so long,” he said. 

He knew it worried her, when he was gone a long time. Darcy was in constant fear of his being recognized, of their cover being blown. Coulson had found them an apartment in Brooklyn to hide out in; one of SHIELD’s high-level operatives— a man Coulson personally guaranteed— supposedly owned the building, so there was no problem there, but Steve’s being out on the town still made her nervous. She didn’t feel like his fake ID, or the name on it— ‘Declan Palmer’— was going to be too convincing, if anyone who paid attention to the news took a long enough look at him… saw past the beard, and his feeble disguises. 

“Where’d you go?” she asked. 

“Post office,” he said. Every other week or so, Coulson sent them a package: a big box of paper, pertaining to whatever he’d looked into since the last shipment. None of it led to anything, but they appreciated his effort to share: it’d been his promise to them, when they’d told him they were leaving the cabin, with or without his blessing. 

“Nother box from Coulson,” he said, confirming it. “And a present,” he added. “For you.” 

He got up, went back to the entryway, and picked up the smaller of the two boxes he’d left by the door. He carried it back to the table, set it down next to her plate, and then dropped back into his chair. 

“For me?” she said, picking up the package, which was wrapped in plain brown mailing paper. It was the size and shape of a large book. “What is it?” 

“Open it up and see,” he said, as he tucked into his meal. 

“Okay,” she said. “What’s the occasion?” 

He swallowed a mouthful of food before replying, and he didn’t look at her when he did. “The occasion was the incident down the block last week.” 

“Oh,” she said, and her expression sobered as she ripped the mailing tape off the box. The ‘incident’, as he’d referred to it, was her getting mugged at the ATM outside the bodega a couple blocks away. It wasn’t even that much money: she’d just taken out twenty bucks, when a group of three teenage boys had come up right behind her and demanded the cash. 

She’d been so shocked by it— it’d been two o'clock in the afternoon; broad daylight, and there were other people around— that she’d instinctively told them to fuck off, not thinking they could possibly be serious. At that point one of them had shoved her while another swept her leg, making her trip and fall, and then kicked her in the stomach while the third grabbed the cash she’d dropped on the ground. Her card was still inside the machine, but the boys hadn’t even bothered trying to get it; they’d just taken off running. 

The weirdest thing was that nobody even tried to stop it happening, even though there was a steady stream of foot-traffic, and people going in and out of the adjacent bodega. One old Dominican lady did stop to ask her if she was all right, and she’d shakily said, “Yes,” and then managed to stand up and remembered to get her card back, her hands shaking. 

She didn’t even realize she was bleeding— she’d abraded her palms when she’d fallen, and one of her pant-legs was ripped at the knee— until she got back to the apartment, and Steve had jumped up, just about having a heart attack when she’d shuffled in, scraped up and stunned, and without the cash she’d gone out to get. 

Even after she’d assured him that she was fine— that it’d just been some jerk-off kids— he’d still been livid. Had wanted to go out on the street, to try to hunt them down— but of course it was pointless, and she’d convinced him to just let it go. It wasn’t like they could get the cops involved anyway, even if they’d been able to catch the kids. 

In a way, it’d actually been valuable intel. One of their theories about the sick feeling she’d gotten from being touched by the men back at the base— but not by Steve, or the handful of other people who’d bumped into her, flesh-to-flesh, since relocating to New York— was that it was a response to danger: a sort of heightened intuition for direct threats to her person. But she’d gotten no such response from the attack by the boys, so that theory had basically been debunked. 

“Maybe it’s more selective,” he’d said. “Threats to both you and Bucky. Or members of Hydra, specifically.” He was trying to keep her from believing her original theory: that Bucky was dead, and that she’d therefore lost whatever sensitivity her bond to him had granted. 

Now he was watching her face carefully, as she ripped opened the package. When she sucked in her breath upon seeing the factory-sealed stun-gun box inside, there was no way for him to know whether her reaction was a good one, or a bad one. Truth was, it was a little of both. 

“How’d you get this?” she said, looking for the return-address on the package: there wasn’t one. “Aren’t these illegal? Like, everywhere?” 

“May got it for me,” he said. “It ain’t like the one you were used to; it’s a stun-gun, not a taser. And yeah, it’s illegal, but whatever. You carry it in your pocket, and zap anyone who tries to grab you. Should startle them long enough for you to get away…” 

They’d argued about this before— he’d wanted her to carry something for personal protection, but she’d blown him off, even before the mugging. She’d already told him the story of how she’d tasered Thor, and how much she’d enjoyed the security of carrying something, back in New Mexico… but after what had happened to Bucky in the machine room, she wasn’t sure how she felt about unleashing electrical shocks on another human being— even if they were asking for it. 

“You mad?” He’d stopped eating, still trying to gauge her reaction. 

“No,” she said, taking the box out so that she could look at the picture on the front, and then flipped it over to read the specs on the back. “I’m not mad.” She picked up the samosa and nibbled off one crispy corner while she continued to read the box. 

“Just want you to feel safe,” he said. 

“I know.” 

It drove him crazy that he couldn’t be her full-time bodyguard, but even he’d had to admit that it wasn’t a good idea for him to be out and about very much. A beard, a winter coat, and a ball-cap could only go so far when you were Captain-freaking-America, even with Coulson’s P.R. people putting out a cover story: supposedly, Steve was taking some time to reacquaint himself with modern life, at a far-off-yet-unnamed location, out of the country… 

Darcy, meanwhile, wasn’t going to attract any attention just by her looks, so she did most of the interacting with the outside world, unless it was a day like today, when she couldn’t seem to muster the will to even get out of bed… 

She’d been issued a fake ID as well; as far as anyone in the neighborhood knew, she was Katie Palmer, and she and her big brother Declan mostly kept to themselves. In the three months they’d been living there, they hadn’t had any problems, other than the mugging. 

“What’s in the other box?” 

“More useless files, I expect,” he said. 

The first few shipments of intel had made her feel energized, hopeful— and she’d put her computer skills to use, trying to track down leads, though on some level it’d been ludicrous: if SHIELD couldn’t even figure out where Bucky was— where he’d been taken, how he was being used— then there was little chance of Darcy coming up with anything new. Still, she had to _try_. It was all she could do, when she wasn’t curled up in her bed, depressed. 

“How do we even know he’s telling us everything?” she’d complained, after a couple of months of getting nowhere. After everything that'd happened, Darcy knew she could never trust anyone from SHIELD again— not completely. Part of what she did with the files Coulson sent was to scour them for clues that SHIELD itself was hiding something from them. 

Steve’s attitude did little to dispel her distrust: “Organization like that,” he’d said, “It’s almost guaranteed people’re gonna be in the dark about various things, at any given level. Secrets all around. Bet Coulson and May can’t even speak freely to one another.” 

“So what are we supposed to do?” she’d complained. “Just wait around for him to pop up on the grid again? Either as himself, or as— as one of them? Programmed to kill?” 

“We do what we can,” Steve had said. “And make sure we’re ready to act, when the time comes.” 

Now, she looked at the stun-gun package and thought about it: about being ready to act, and the fact that she’d been felled by three snot-nosed little neighborhood punks, over a mere twenty dollars. About how hard it was, most days, to even stand up and move about the apartment. She didn’t feel like she was ready for anything. 

“Maybe we need a break,” she said, sighing. “Get out of here for a few days. We could get on a train, go to D.C.” 

Steve was quiet while he resumed eating, not bothering to comment on the suggestion. It’d been another argument, and one that he’d been particularly stubborn about, every time she brought it up: her suggestion that they go visit Peggy, at the nursing home in Washington. 

Darcy had assumed it would be something he’d want to do as soon as possible, after they’d made it to the east coast, but he’d shut down the conversation every time she’d raised it. Told her he was fine with leaving all that where it belonged: in the past. 

She wasn’t buying it: it was his _soulmate_ they were talking about, and she was still alive, and they knew exactly where she was, or at least had the address that Coulson had given them. 

She knew he had no practical excuse to keep away from her: at Peggy’s age— which included several decades on the other side of menopause— she at least wouldn’t suffer any of the physical effects of seeing and then being separated from him, should they decide to visit. His own physical effects would be comparatively mild. Manageable. Worth it, to see her, in Darcy’s opinion. 

Emotionally, though… who knew. It was the rationale he fell back on, in refusing to entertain the idea. He didn’t want to hurt anyone— open old wounds. 

The better excuse— and the one that Darcy had a tougher time rejecting— was the security risk. It was possible Hydra was having Peggy watched, though Coulson had assured Steve that every precaution had been taken to ensure the former director’s personal safety— including frequent sweeps of her room for surveillance devices— and that, in the wake of the attack on the base, all staff at the nursing home had been thoroughly re-vetted. 

Darcy suspected that a lot of Steve’s reluctance had to do with not wanting to face up to the reality of it; that seeing Peggy in the flesh would bring him face-to-face with the proof—there for him to see, written in the lines on her face: the life she’d lived without him. 

Unlike Darcy, who, once they’d had access to a computer again, had obsessively searched for and read anything she could find about Bucky Barnes, spending countless hours skimming histories, reading through anecdotes, and printing out old photographs she found on the Web— Steve, for his part, had chosen not to crack open that door… 

Still, she pressed the issue, bringing it up periodically— because even if Peggy had found happiness after his supposed death, and her own form of closure, Steve never had. He could push it away all he liked, but Darcy knew he was hurting. 

At times he’d simply leave the room, retreating to his own tiny bedroom in the apartment, shutting the door behind him, and she’d know that was the end of the discussion for the night. 

She hadn’t brought it up in a while, and she looked at the stun-gun box again. “If I open this thing up,” she said. “Learn how to use it, agree to carry it— will you go to D.C. with me? Just see her once? I think— I know you’re scared, but…” 

“Okay,” he said softly. He hadn’t looked up from his plate, but his fork had stopped moving. 

She was surprised: not sure she’d heard him correctly. “Wait, did you just agree?” she said. And then she felt guilty. “Hey, I don’t want to strong-arm you into it or something. I shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean to—” 

He sighed and put down his fork, finally looked up at her worried eyes. “No, you’re right,” he said. “About all of it. We need a break from…” 

He looked around the tiny apartment, the stacks of boxes of useless intel, shoved up against the walls. The black-and-white pictures of Sgt. James Barnes that she’d downloaded from the internet, printed off and taped to the wall behind the computer, like a kind of self-torture— bathing herself in loss and regret and helplessness, all day, every day. 

“From all this,” he said, finishing his statement. He looked at the stun-gun. “You don’t gotta use that thing if it makes you uncomfortable.” 

He picked up his fork again and dragged it through the dregs of rice on his plate. “It’s time,” he said. “I gotta go see her. I gotta see her before—” 

He didn’t say it, but she knew what he meant: _before she dies_. 

“Okay,” she said, and then they started eating quietly again. “I’ll, um… I’ll call Coulson. Tomorrow.” 

* * *

“Oh my God,” she said, when he finally came out of the bathroom.

It’d been almost a week since their conversation; she’d called Coulson the following day, so he could set it up for them: a cover story for their visit, accommodations for a single night at a secure hotel. They were leaving on the train that morning. 

He’d been in the bathroom for almost an hour, and she’d been starting to get antsy, wondering why it was taking him so long to get ready. If maybe he was stalling, getting cold feet. 

Now she knew what he’d been up to in there: he’d completely shaved off his beard. 

“You look just like your publicity photos,” she said, gawking at him. She hadn’t seen him completely clean-shaven, ever. 

“Shit, I wasn’t even thinkin’ of that,” he said, rubbing his now-smooth jaw with his hand. “Just thought maybe… I mean, maybe she’d have a better chance of recognizing me, if…” 

“Yeah,” said Darcy, staring at him. “Her, and everyone else in the tri-state area. We’re gonna have to disguise you better, somehow.” 

“I’ll wear a muffler,” he said. “Wrap it around. And the sunglasses, and—” 

“Okay, Grandpa,” she said, giggling a little. 

“What,” he said. “What’d I say this time.” 

“_Muffler_.” 

“That ain't the right word?” 

“A muffler goes on a car,” she said. “A scarf goes around your neck.” 

“A scarf,” he said, giving her a sassy look, which was so much more obvious now without the beard, “was somethin’ the old ladies would wear on their head at church.” 

“Well, whatever you wanna call it,” she said, “you should definitely wear it.” She couldn’t stop staring at him. It was the first time she’d ever really seen him as _Captain America_ instead of just… Steve. 

He was putting on his coat, and then he took the thick flannel scarf off the peg by the door and wound it around his neck, seeing if he could hide the lower half of his face in it. 

“It’s not even that cold out,” she said. “You’re gonna look like a weirdo.” 

“Better a weirdo, than…” 

“Yeah,” she said. “But maybe we should take a cab, instead of the subway. That way we’ll only be exposing you to one guy, and not hundreds of random people who might recognize you… until we get on the Amtrak, at least.” 

“Fine with me,” he said. 

* * *

After a tense cab ride to Penn Station, and an equally-tense train ride of several hours, they finally made it to Washington in the early afternoon. Steve had the address of the nursing home in his pocket, and he fished the crumpled piece of paper out and handed it to Darcy, who communicated the address to the cabbie outside Union Station. 

“Do you know where this is?” she asked, as Steve kept his head down, hiding his face under the brim of his ball-cap. She turned to him. “You think we should go to the hotel first? Drop off our stuff?” 

“Yeah, we may as well,” he said. He seemed relieved to make the detour… a chance to stall… 

They were a bit early for check-in, but the concierge accommodated them, and they made quick work of dropping off their few bags… took a moment to tidy up. 

“You look nice,” said Darcy, as she stood in the doorway to the bathroom, watching him comb his hair. She couldn’t imagine how nervous he must be. 

“You ready?” she said, when he’d finished. He was just standing there, staring at himself in the mirror. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. 

* * *

She could still feel the tension radiating off of him as they sat side-by-side in the back of the cab, and finally, about ten minutes into the ride, she reached over and grabbed his hand. “It’s gonna be okay,” she said. 

He sucked in a deep breath and let it out. “I know,” he said. He squeezed her hand and then released it, returning his own hand to his lap. “Thanks, uh… thanks for makin’ me do this,” he said. “I don’t know if I woulda had the guts to, if—” He didn’t finish; just looked out the window on his side, staring at the buildings, the groups of tourists and government workers crowding the streets… 

Darcy paid the cabbie after they pulled up to the home: it was a nice-looking place, in what seemed like an upscale part of town. 

They were both nervous, and not just about seeing Peggy; even with his disguise on, Steve was such a striking figure— tall, well-built— that he was liable to draw double-takes. Scrutiny. 

Turned out they needn’t have worried: it was smooth-sailing at the front desk. Coulson had already arranged it all; they were posing, under their fake names, as old friends of the family. They were already on the visitors’ list, and nobody seemed to give Steve a second glance. 

After signing the ledger, and waiting a few minutes, they were escorted by a young nurse down a long hallway that had closed doors on both sides, like a hotel. 

Steve stopped short about halfway down the hall, turning to the side, closing his eyes as he breathed heavily. 

“Hey,” whispered Darcy, stopping as well. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” 

“Is he all right?” asked the nurse. She seemed genuinely concerned, rather than irritated. 

“Yeah,” said Darcy, smiling politely as she put her hand on Steve’s back. “He’s just— it’s been a long time since we saw her and— I mean, we’ve heard it can be…” 

“I understand,” said the nurse, with a kind voice. “If it’s any help, she’s had a string of really good days this week. Today’s been a very good day. Clear. She’s a very strong lady.” 

“She always was,” said Steve, his voice almost breaking, and he took another big gulp of air and then let it out and nodded his head. “Okay.” He said it again, like he was fortifying himself: “Okay.” 

“You good?” said Darcy, her hand still on his back. 

“Yeah,” he said, turning to look at her, trying to give her a reassuring smile. The nurse was waiting politely, not looking at them. Darcy kept waiting for her to do a double-take at Steve and say, “_Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you look kinda like_…,” but it never happened. For all they knew, she could be undercover SHIELD, there to protect the former director... 

They started walking again, and the nurse led them to a door near the end of the hallway. There was a small, brightly-colored piece of needlework, done up on plastic canvas, hanging below the number on the door. It was a rainbow-between-two-clouds, and the clouds had smiley-faces on them; it looked like the kind of thing a kid would make from a craft-store kit. 

The nurse knocked on the door and then opened it up. “Mrs. Sousa? Here are those visitors…” 

Darcy stepped into the room first, and then stepped to the side so that Steve could come in behind her. She could see that there was a handsome-looking elderly woman lying propped up in a bed, looking at a collection of greeting cards that were scattered in her lap. She had shoulder-length grey hair, combed smooth, with a few widely-looping curls at the ends, and she looked up at them, confusion in her eyes when she didn’t recognize Darcy. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” said the nurse softly, and then she retreated, leaving the two of them standing there, in the entryway. Steve walked farther into the room, his back to them both as he glanced around at the recliner, the little bookcase, and a small wooden writing desk and chair that made up the remainder of the small living space— looking anywhere but at the woman in the bed. 

There was a door on the other side of the bed, likely leading to a bathroom. The walls were decorated with children’s artwork, and Darcy looked over to see Steve looking at a collection of framed family photographs on the bookcase… 

“I’m sorry,” said the woman, her voice a slow, slightly gravelly but gentle sound in the room. She was looking between the two of them. “I’m not always— I’m not sure I—” 

Darcy could hear the remnants of a British accent in her voice, altered by years of living in America, but not entirely gone. 

Steve finally turned around to look at her, and Darcy could see that there were already tears in his eyes. “Hey, Pegs,” he said. He took off his ball-cap, and held it nervously in his hands. 

“Do I—” She was peering at him, trying to see him better. “Could you come closer? I don’t have my glasses… I know— I know your voice, but—” 

“It’s me, Peggy,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s Steve.” 

Darcy could see it: see the moment it hit her, her entire face changing— her expression almost collapsing in something between shock and fear— and she felt self-conscious, like she shouldn’t be there… didn’t belong in the room with them while this private moment was happening. 

She was about to excuse herself— go find a water fountain or something, and then the woman ground out just one word, like a quiet sob: 

“Steve?” 

“Yeah,” he said, his answer almost inaudible, and he reached his hand out, tentative, retracted it once, and then moved it toward her again, until the woman reached out with her own and grabbed onto it with surprising strength, pulling him closer. She was looking at his hand like she couldn’t believe it was solid. 

“Is is really you?” she said, her jaw shaking a little as she lifted her gaze to stare openly at him. “But how can you _be_ here? What—” She looked almost frightened again, as she moved her eyes between the two of them, not understanding. “Am I dead?” 

“No,” said Steve, his voice tender. “No, Peggy— you’re not dead.” He looked behind him, wanting to sit, and Darcy quickly grabbed the wooden chair by the desk and moved it over to the bedside, so Steve could sit down. He let go of Peggy’s hand just long enough to shove his winter coat off, draping it around the back of the chair, and then sat down. 

“Thanks,” he said to Darcy, looking back at her, and she could see that he was completely overwhelmed… 

“Do you want me to—” 

“No,” he said. “Stay. Please.” 

“Is this—” The woman’s face was searching both of theirs again. “Is this your wife?” she said, and her face was open, questioning: nothing judgmental there; just wanting to know. 

“No,” said Steve, and he put his other hand over Peggy’s, so that he was holding it sandwiched between his. “No, I—” 

“We’re undercover,” broke in Darcy, finally speaking directly to her, and then she smiled. “We’re pretty terrible at it. I’m supposed to be his sister… ‘Cause, you know, we look so much alike…” 

“You remember Bucky?” said Steve. “Bucky Barnes?” 

“Barnes,” said Peggy, like she hadn’t heard the name in a very long time— and most likely, she hadn’t. “It was so sad, what happened to him. Is this—” She was looking at Darcy more closely, speaking slowly, almost like she was having a conversation with herself, trying to sort out her thoughts... “Are you his daughter? No; you’d have to be his granddaughter, now… But that’s not possible…” 

And then she looked at Steve again: another impossibility. There, nevertheless. 

“But how are you _here_,” she said, and then she reached up to touch his face. “I don’t understand.” A little tear leaked out of one of her eyes, found a path through the furrows of her wrinkles. “Unchanged,” she said, her voice betraying disbelief and awe. “Like it was yesterday…” 

“They found me,” he said, and he wiped his own face. “They finally found me; Christ, didn’t anyone tell you? I’m so sorry, Peg, I—” 

Darcy put her hand on Steve’s shoulder— leaned over to say, “I’m gonna go find a bathroom. I’ll, um… I’ll be back in a bit, okay?” 

“What?” he said, but he barely moved his head in acknowledgment, his eyes now locked with Peggy’s, their hands still clasped together. 

Darcy left as quietly as she could, pulling the door shut noiselessly behind her. 

* * *

When she returned to the room, almost forty minutes later, they were still sitting there, hand-in-hand, and she could see Peggy smiling at Steve with a look that was so baldly adoring that Darcy considered doing an immediate about-face, but Peggy spoke up, stopping her. 

“There she is,” she said, her voice sounding tired, but still lucid. And then her eyebrows pinched a bit, and she sounded confused again: “But did they ever find Sergeant Barnes? We could never prove it; it had to have been a rumor…” 

Steve looked back at Darcy, and she shrugged at him, having no more idea than he did, what she was driving at. 

“What do you mean?” said Steve. “What rumor?” 

“It was a long time ago,” she said, and her face got a faraway look on it, and she’d let go of Steve’s hand, her eyes searching some invisible unknown. “I’d forgotten; I—” 

“What was,” said Steve, pressing her a little, as Darcy moved closer, her heart picking up. “Peggy, what rumor?” 

His voice brought her back from wherever she’d gone, and she looked at his face again, her expression startled and then confused. “Steve?” she said, and her bony little hand, blue veins showing through the translucent, freckled skin, reached up to touch his face again. “You’re real,” she said in wonder. 

“I’m real,” he said gently. “I’m here. You were talking about Bucky. You remember Bucky?” 

“Of course I do,” she said, her eyes hanging on his. “Sergeant Barnes.” 

“You were talking about a rumor,” said Darcy. “A rumor about—” 

“Nobody believed it,” she said. “It was too ridiculous.” 

“Believed what,” said Steve, and then he repeated it: “Believed what?” 

“That it could be him. The one they called… the _American_. One of our agents… he’d spent years in deep cover, and then… but they said he was crazy; said his captivity had made him believe things that couldn’t be true… of course it was never substantiated…” 

Her voice was drifting a little… getting tired. 

“What was?” said Steve, trying to keep her focused. “Peggy, what wasn’t substantiated?” 

“That it was Barnes,” she said, looking back at him again. “He claimed… he said he saw him… still youthful, not… he should have been middle-aged by then, even if…” 

“Is he still alive?” said Steve. “The agent— the man who claimed—” 

“No,” said Peggy, sounding sure. “I do remember that. He was killed in the line of duty, a few years later. In Ukraine…” She was staring at the wall, but seemed to be seeing it in her head. “That was in 1957. Anna was in Kindergarten, remember? It was so cold that winter…” 

“But the rumors,” said Darcy, trying to get her back on track. “What were they, exactly?” 

“I think I’m getting tired,” she said, and she let go of Steve’s hand, started shuffling slowly through the greeting cards that were still scattered on the bed, trying to move them to the bedside table. Steve started to help her, but Darcy wasn’t willing to let it go. 

“What were the rumors?” she said, a little more sharply. 

“Hey, take it easy,” said Steve, looking up at her reproachfully, before moving his eyes back to Peggy’s face. “You want us to go? Let you get some rest?” 

“They died down, after the President was killed,” she said, answering Darcy’s question instead. “Nobody heard many stories about him after that.” 

Darcy was still pressing: “Stories about…” 

“They had a name for him,” she said. “Like a fairy-tale… a Russian fairy-tale… more of a myth, than a man… I’m sure that’s all they were… tall tales, or ghost stories to frighten the recruits… they called him… _Zímny Soldát_.” She said the Russian words as easily as she’d spoken English, and then translated for them: “The Winter Soldier.” 

“What? What did you say?” said Darcy, her voice unsteady, as something in her stomach soured. 

“Take it easy,” said Steve again, but Darcy kept talking, undeterred. 

“That name—” 

She remembered it then: the lady in the machine room… the doctor, slapping his face… the other one: the blond-haired woman, who’d barked her commands, both of them using that word to get his attention: _Soldat!_

And the man: Kyle… the nasty things he’d said to her… he’d used the same name… the _Winter Soldier_… 

She felt dizzy. Needed to sit down. At the same time, she wanted to move in closer— shake the other woman. Get answers. 

Peggy was staring at her, and then she wrinkled her brow, her expression confused, having lost the clarity she’d had just a moment before. “I don’t—” She looked at Steve, as though asking for help, and then back to Darcy again. “Who are you?” she said. “Are you Anna?” 

“No,” said Steve. “No, that’s Darcy.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Peggy. “I don’t— I thought—” She looked at Darcy again. “Are you sure you aren’t Anna?” 

“It’s okay,” said Steve soothingly. “It’s all right. We’re gonna leave you alone now.” 

“I’m tired,” she said. 

“Okay,” he said, and he was standing up, and he held a hand out to Darcy, palm toward her, warning her not to say any more, sensing how much she wanted to keep pressing: to continue questioning the woman. 

“Can I come see you again some time?” he said, as he looked down at Peggy again. 

“I’d like that,” she said, and she smiled at him, her old eyes twinkling. “You’re very handsome, you know. Anna always had the best taste in men…” 

“Get some rest, Peg,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. 

* * *

“You okay?” he said to Darcy, as soon as they were alone in the hallway outside the room. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Are you?” 

“Not even a little,” he said, not bothering to lie. “Do you wanna… let’s walk for a while, before we head over to the museum.” 

Coulson had asked them to check in at the Smithsonian during their visit— had said they were holding some things there for Steve, at the National Air and Space Museum, where they were already starting work on an exhibit tracing the history of Captain America, to be unveiled in 2014. Coulson had given them a contact name— an old friend of his, who’d promised to be discreet, in hopes of conducting a private interview, to fill in some of the blanks in their narrative. 

“You sure you still want to do that?” she said, as they exited the building, going down the steps to the sidewalk. “We don’t have to. We can just tell them to fuck themselves, and go home.” 

It sounded appealing. She could only imagine how Steve felt— he’d just left his soulmate behind in a nursing home, and it’d seemed like she’d forgotten who he was, by the end. 

“I wanna get my stuff,” he said. “I don’t know what they have, but.” 

They’d both started walking down the sidewalk, having chosen a random direction. 

“That sucks, that they’re basically holding it hostage,” she said. She was walking briskly now— angry. She wanted to start a fistfight with the entire world. “They should just give it to you. It’s _yours_.” 

“That ain’t how they see it,” he said. “Captain America belongs to everyone.” 

“You’re not Captain America,” she said. “You’re Steve.” And then, inexplicably, she burst into tears, abruptly halting her march. 

He didn’t tell her to stop crying; he just stopped as well, there on the sidewalk, and pulled her into his body, his big arms sheltering her, and she felt guilty, being the one to break down, when he had to be breaking apart himself, after what he’d just been through… 

“You wanna tell me what that was all about back there?” he murmured, after she’d let it out a little. “Seemed like— it wasn’t all random, was it: she said something that…” 

“You sure you want to talk about this right now?” she said. “I mean, you just—” 

“There’s nothing I can do about that,” he said, a little roughly, before she could say more. “Gimme something I can change. Something I can do something about.” 

She tipped her face up so she could see him— he was staring off to the side, his jaw clenched. She could see that he was pushing it all down, inside. 

He shut his eyes for a second. “Please,” he said, and then he looked right at her, and she could see then that he needed it: needed the distraction. 

“Okay,” she said, stepping back a little, looking around. There was nobody else nearby on the sidewalk, but she still felt nervous, talking about it out loud on the street. “You’re right: it was the names she used. ‘_Soldat_,’ for one. The bad people: they definitely called him that.” 

“Okay,” he said. “I mean, it might be something. It’s a little generic, but…” 

“But the other one,” she said, breaking in. “I know that one too. The— not the Russian part, but the translation. The ‘_Winter Soldier_’.” 

“What do you mean?” His face was serious now— paying attention. 

“It was when— I think it was when they were first taking him down… hitting him with the stun batons.” She swallowed, hating to relive it all over again, in her head. “One of the— the people in the room… One of them used that name. Not to him, but. I didn’t even remember it, until she said it back there, and …” 

“What’d they say?” said Steve. “Do you remember exactly?” 

“It was ugly,” she said, and she kept her face lowered, not wanting to look at him, when she said it. “It was Kyle. The guy that May killed, when they were trying to get out. He said—” 

She didn’t even want to say it out loud, but she needed to— wanted Steve to know it was real. That what Peggy had said hadn’t just been the ramblings of a confused old woman, or, as Peggy herself had postulated, an ‘unsubstantiated rumor’ or a ‘tall tale’… 

Someone, at some point in SHIELD, had _known_ something, even if he hadn’t been taken seriously… 

“He said… he said I was…” She breathed out, trying to remember the exact words. “He said, ‘_you were fuckin’ the Winter Soldier, and you didn’t even know it_.” 

She breathed out again, loud. “I didn’t know what he meant; I thought it was just some weird… I don’t know…” 

“You got your phone?” he said. Steve didn’t like to carry a separate phone, unless he knew they were going to be apart. 

“Yeah,” she said, sniffling. “Right here.” She pulled it out of her pocket and handed it over. “Who’re you calling?” 

He tapped it open, putting in her password, and then opened up the contacts list, which only had three names on it— the only three that were safe to call if she wasn’t using a burner: Steve, Coulson, and May. 

“I’m calling Coulson,” he said, as he held the phone up to his ear. He waited, and then Darcy could hear the faint sound of the series of beeps that indicated he’d been connected to Coulson’s private voicemail. 

“This is Rogers,” he said. His voice was hard: all business. “I need you to send me everything you have on the Winter Soldier. Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about, because somebody over there does, and if you don’t, then you need to find out.” 

He clicked off the phone and handed it back to her. 

She took it, just staring up at him, blinking, the tears drying on her face, and said, in a very small voice, “Have I told you how much I love you, Steven Grant Rogers?” 

His face was grim, but he pulled her back in for another hug, bending down to kiss the crown of her head. “I love you too, sweetheart.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	20. Chapter 20

They were ten minutes late for their appointment at the museum, but Darcy didn’t give a shit, and she could tell that Steve didn’t, either. Coulson had called them back while they were en route in the cab, and the conversation had continued after they’d been dropped off on Independence Avenue. 

They were standing on the sidewalk in front of the museum, which looked to Darcy like a long row of gigantic filing-cabinet drawers, done up in cream-colored brick. 

Steve was still talking, his hand holding the cell-phone to his ear as he paced in a circle: “Yes, I’m positive. She said the agent called the guy ‘_the American_,’— or that the Soviets did, at any rate. And then she mentioned something called the Winter Soldier. And Darcy confirmed it.” 

He was quiet, listening for a moment, and Darcy could see how agitated he was, even though he was keeping it reined in. “Yes. We’re here now. Okay. Yes, that’s fine. I’ll let you know.” 

He clicked off, and for a second Darcy thought he was going to throw the phone, but then he handed it back to her, turning his head as he exhaled through his nose. 

“You okay?” she asked. 

“Felt like he was as concerned about our keeping this damn appointment, as he was about the other stuff,” he said. 

“I think that’s just his way,” she said, surprised that she was defending the man; Coulson still hadn’t made it off her Shit List. Maybe never would. “Like, he’s always so… _even_.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” said Steve. “He promised he’d look into it: that we’d hear from him before we go back.” 

“Well, that’s something,” she said. 

“Yeah.” He finally looked up at the long row of giant, cream-brick cubes. “Guess we better go in. Get this over with.” 

* * *

Their contact was a middle-aged white woman named Paula, who seemed to have a perma-grin, and was possibly in danger of peeing her pants over getting to meet the real _Captain America_. She approached them within seconds of their stepping into the building. 

“I was afraid you weren’t going to come,” she said, practically gushing, her eyes only on Steve. “Phil and I are old friends; we’ve been trading memorabilia for _years_; when he said he might be able to—” 

The woman was babbling, and Darcy cut her off: 

“Could we, uh… move this somewhere a little more private?” 

Steve had been keeping his head down, but the entrance to the museum was bustling with tourists, and the woman’s excitement was drawing attention. 

“Of course,” she said, finally noticing Darcy. “I apologize. You must be Angela…” 

“Yup,” she said, going along with Coulson’s cover story for her: Darcy was posing as Steve’s personal assistant. The woman was too dazzled by Steve to really give a crap who she was, which was fine with her, but Darcy had one piece of business to attend to before she would let Steve go anywhere with this stranger. 

She held out her hand, offering a formal handshake. The other woman took it automatically, and shook it once, perfunctorily. Darcy may have hung on a second too long, but she wanted to be sure: no nausea. Nothing. 

She nodded to Steve as she dropped the woman’s hand. It didn’t _prove_ anything, but it made her feel a little bit better about the situation. 

“Right this way,” said the woman, ushering them away from the entrance and over to a door marked _Staff Only_. She led them to a secluded conference room, which was dominated by a large boardroom-style table surrounded by a dozen black-leather executive chairs. 

There was a small cardboard box—about fifteen inches to a side— sitting on the table, and both Darcy and Steve kept looking at it as Paula invited them to make themselves comfortable. 

“Can I get you some coffee?” she said, as they sat. “Tea? Bottled water?” 

“I’d strangle someone for a cup of black coffee,” muttered Darcy, not caring how she sounded. “Or something stronger.” 

“Coffee would be great,” said Steve, being polite for both of them. He’d taken off his cap, and ran a hand through his hair, trying to get it to lie flat again. “Thank you.” The woman smiled widely, and shuffled off to get it. 

Darcy leaned sideways to Steve, still looking at the box, and whispered, “We could just take it, and go…” 

He snickered, but shook his head, and before he could reply, Paula was already back, her dress-pants swishing as she walked. “They just have to make a fresh pot,” she said, “but it’ll be ready in a few minutes…” 

“You really don’t need to go to the trouble—” started Steve, sitting up a little, obviously embarrassed, but the woman waved him down. Her face was going to explode from grinning, just from looking at him. 

After a few more awkward, stilted pleasantries, and some light chit-chat, the promised coffee arrived, delivered by a young man who seemed to have been instructed not to acknowledge any of them. He set down the tray and left, and then the woman finally launched into her list of questions for Steve, taking the time to jot things down on a yellow legal pad. 

Darcy found herself zoning out, staring at the cardboard walls of the box on the table as she played over the things that the elderly Peggy Carter had said, back at the home: 

_I thought it was just a rumor_… 

_The American_… 

_After the President was killed_… 

_The Winter Soldier_… 

She remembered John— Bucky— aiming the pistol at Peck’s unconscious body… pulling the trigger… following orders… 

She startled, some time later, when she felt a hand on her shoulder: Steve was standing up, the interview over. “Ready to go?” he asked. 

She hadn’t even touched her coffee. “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.” 

* * *

The hotel room felt a little on the chilly side when they got back, and Darcy immediately moved to crank up the heat before emptying her pockets on the dresser. She flopped onto her back on one of the two double beds, claiming the one farthest away from the door for herself. 

Steve hadn’t opened the box yet— he’d set it down on the dresser, next to the flatscreen TV, and then walked away, taking his time to shoulder off his coat and remove his shoes. 

Darcy would have been ripping the box open in the back of the cab, if it’d been hers, and part of her wondered if he was going to wait until they got back to New York, so he could take it to his bedroom. Shut the door. Open up his past in private. 

“I’m gonna order some room service,” she said. She was starting to get hungry, which meant Steve had to be starving. She sat up and went over to the little desk, found the menu inside the little faux-leather folder, and took it back to the bed to peruse the selections. “What do you want?” 

“Whatever,” he said. “You know what I like.” He was sitting down on the end of the other bed. He seemed very far away, glancing every now and then at the box, which was still sitting on the dresser next to the television, untouched. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he said suddenly, pushing up off the bed. 

“Okay.” 

He grabbed his duffel bag and disappeared into the bathroom, and she heard the shower come on. She called in the food order, going heavy on the protein and carbs. “You have any whiskey?” she asked, on impulse, and then listened to the man on the other end of the line rattle off the bar’s selections… 

After she hung up the phone, she listened to the patter of the shower, something changed about it now— some other sound beneath the spray— and then she realized that it was Steve, crying, the sound of it not completely muffled by the water. She stood up and turned on the television, wanting to give him some measure of privacy, whether or not he was aware of it. 

He came out about twenty minutes later, his skin flushed from the heat of the shower. He’d pulled on some sweatpants and a clean T-shirt, and smelled nice. In spite of all of that, she could tell he was wrecked— his face tired, his eyes red. 

“Food’s coming,” she said. She was lying down on the bed she’d claimed, watching CNN without really seeing. It was just noise, the people like puppets. 

“Thanks,” he said, as he sat down heavily on the end of the other bed. “For everything.” 

She hadn’t really done anything, but she knew what he meant. It’d been a rough day for both of them. She knew he’d talk to her about it— about Peggy— if he needed to. And if not, she was still there. A silent witness. Maybe that was enough. 

The box was sitting there, directly across from him, and she couldn’t tell whether he was staring at it, or at the TV… 

There was a knock on the door, and the muffled sound of a young man saying, “_Room service_,” and Steve got up and went to take care of it, checking through the peephole first. 

They were both twitchy and paranoid, not taking anything for granted. It only occurred to her after the guy was already rolling the cart into the room that she should have checked him out— shaken his hand, as she’d done with the lady at the museum. It would have been weird, but so what. 

It was all fine: no assassins, no teams of bad guys disguised as housekeeping, come to take them down like some tired thriller-movie— just a youngish man, skinny, in a cheap hotel uniform, who asked them where they wanted the food. 

“Right there’s fine,” said Steve. He was keeping his face turned away as much as he could, and signed his fake name to the room-service receipt. 

Once the guy had left and they’d locked up again, they both sat back down, each at the end of their own bed, and ate in silence for about ten minutes, occasionally glancing up at the TV screen. The newscaster was talking about a federal appeals court in California striking down the voter-approved ban on same-sex marriage. People on both sides of the issue were vowing to take it to the Supreme Court… 

Darcy had ordered a typically outrageous number of calories for Steve: two complete dinners, which she knew he would easily destroy, and extra side-orders of bread and hummus. While he worked on his strip steak and a half roast chicken, each with a large helping of potatoes, both roasted and mashed, and sides of excessively-buttery vegetables, she picked at her too-oily chicken-breast dinner, eventually pushing it toward Steve, knowing he’d finish it for her. There was a plate of ‘artisanal’ cheeses served with herbed flatbreads, nuts, and fruits, and she switched over to that instead. 

The bottle of whiskey that she’d probably paid quadruple the regular price for was standing there next to a pitcher of ice-water, and once they’d both had their fill of food, she got up to grab the glass tumblers from the desk and brought them back to the tray, Steve stacking up some of the empty plates to make room. 

They both knew that it’d do shit for him, but he took the glass she poured for him anyway, and drank it all the way down, closing his eyes as he exhaled. She drained hers as well, and then refilled both of their glasses. 

“Thanks,” he said, his entire body deflating a little, like he was finally releasing some of the tension of the day. “I needed that.” 

“Wish it could actually… you know— _help_,” she said. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” 

It was a common refrain for them: the both of them, always reassuring one another that they were ‘_fine_’, even when everything was a misery. It was just a way of saying that they hadn’t reached the point of giving up. Maybe a promise not to. 

She watched him as he pushed the cart away a little, and then he stood up and went over to the desk, finally picked up the box, and brought it back, setting it down on the bedspread. 

“I got no idea what’s in here,” he said, as he just stood there, staring down at it. 

“You know you don’t—” 

“No point puttin’ it off,” he said. 

She didn’t reply— just finished off her second glass of whiskey, poured a half-serving for a third, and then nibbled at one of the remaining pieces of bread, making a point of not staring at him while he opened up the box. 

He sat back down on the bed, next to it. Broke the seal on it— pulled off the packing tape, balling it up, and then opened the flaps. Let out a breath. She glanced over then, to see how he was doing. 

He was just sitting there, rubbing his forehead, like it was already overwhelming, though he hadn’t taken anything out yet. 

“You okay?” she said. She got up from her bed, set her tumbler down on the room-service cart, and walked around it to stand next to where he was seated. Looked inside the box. 

It wasn’t much: just a half-dozen thin, battered-looking, leather-bound books, nestled among some packing-paper. A small metal tin with dents all over it sat atop one of the stacks. There was a pristine-looking manila envelope tucked into the side, next to the books. 

“What are they?” she asked, meaning the books. She sat down on the bed, on the other side of the box from Steve. 

“They’re my sketchbooks,” he said. “From Europe.” He made a scoffing sort of sound. “M’surprised they’re lettin’ me have these; seem like the kinda thing that lady woulda liked for her exhibit…” 

Darcy was quiet, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts. 

“I don’t even know who— maybe Peggy,” he said. “After I…” His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know if I can look at these right now.” 

“So don’t,” she said. “Close it back up. You can look at them back home, when you’re ready.” 

He shook his head. “Don’t know if I’ll ever be ready…” 

He did pick up the tin, and carefully opened it. There was a collection of old pencils inside, and a tiny, metal hand-held pencil sharpener that was completely covered with rust. 

“Wow,” she breathed, as she leaned over to look at the contents. “It’s so weird to think that the last time someone used those…” 

“You mean the last time I used ‘em,” said Steve. He picked up one of the pencils, turned it in his hand, and then put it back in the tin. Carefully put the cover back on and set it aside. 

He picked up the manila envelope then, and she tried not to make it too obvious that she could see how his hand was shaking a little. He lifted the flap and slid out the contents… 

It was a collection of old newspaper clippings, most of them photocopies of the originals, which were probably being kept by the Smithsonian. Pictures of soldiers, campsites, publicity shots of Steve in his Captain-America suit… 

“Aw, man,” he said, pulling one out of the pile. “I remember this…” 

She leaned in closer, so she could see: it was a black-and-white photograph of Steve handing out cans of food to some little kids, in the wrecked remains of some bombed-out city. 

“They made me wait,” he said. “Until the cameras were all set up. And the worst part was, the kids played along with it. They were—” He shut his eyes for a moment, shook his head. “They were fucking starving,” he said, when he opened his eyes again. “But they were so star-struck by the Americans… by the cameras, by— by _Captain America_.” He said the name derisively. “They played their part, waiting until the cameraman said to go ahead and take the food…” 

He put that picture aside, and started going through the stack more rapidly, making a stray comment here and there, occasionally handing something over to Darcy to look at or read. Many of the clippings were just text, and he set those aside quickly, to look at later— and then he stopped: froze… he was staring at something, and then he looked up her, and he couldn’t even speak… 

“What is it,” she said. She set down the one she’d been reading, almost afraid to see whatever had stopped him cold like that. 

He just handed it over to her, and then he stood up, looked around the room, like he was searching for something, and then he said, “I’m uh… I’m gonna take a walk.” He picked up his cap and put it on and found one of the plastic key-cards that they’d left on the dresser. Reached down to grab his shoes, not even bothering to put them on before he went to the door. 

She would never have approved of his taking a walk, even just around the interior of the hotel— not without a better disguise— but she’d been completely unprepared for the photo, and she was just staring at it, speechless— just as he had— and she barely registered the sound of the door clicking shut as he left, giving her the privacy to deal with the photo on her own. 

It was too much. 

She couldn’t— it was too much. 

It was John. It was Bucky, it was John. It was John and he looked beautiful. Tired, and maybe a little sad, but still beautiful, his eyes looking right at the cameraman. Looking at _her_. 

He was sitting down, some men behind him, all of it a bit scratched up and blurry, and he looked so young… 

He was shirtless and he had both of his real arms— leaning forward a little, his forearms resting on his thighs… 

The words were right there: right where he’d described them appearing in his dream… 

The letters were hard to see, in the aged and worn scatter of ancient newsprint, photocopied an unknown number of times, and for a few seconds she actually questioned its authenticity, peering at the deep shadows and the odd tilt of his head: wondered if someone had Photoshopped his head onto another man’s body. 

But the way Steve had reacted— like he recognized it, maybe remembered the moment it’d been taken— told her that it wasn’t a fake. That she could trust it. And she knew it, in her heart, anyway: it was real. There was only one man in the Universe who had those words on his body, and that man was John. Bucky. James Barnes. Nobody could have known it, could have faked it; even _she_ hadn’t known she was going to say those words to him, until they were leaving her mouth. 

She peered at the words with more scrutiny— hunched over a little, as she held the paper an inch away from her face. She could see that the letters were a looped cursive, a little old-fashioned: like something from a old schoolhouse chalkboard, only instead of white chalk on a black field, this was a deep black script on the paler background of his lightly tanned skin… 

And she could make it out, now that she was looking closely: the capital ‘J’ and ‘B’ of the name: John Brennan— the made-up name that some horrible men in the future would assign him, in an attempt to deceive him… already there, like the words of an Oracle… stamped on his arm by Fate, decades ago… 

And below that, the rest of it… 

One of the words— ‘_there_’— was hidden, around the curve of his muscle, out of sight, but she could clearly make out the beginnings of the other two— the ones she’d said to him, down in the basement, as he’d aimed the gun at her: the big ‘W’ of _whoa_, and just below it, nudged over a little on his arm, the ‘C’ for _cowboy_… 

_Whoa there, cowboy_… 

She felt like she was going to throw up. 

It’s not that she’d doubted it: she’d believed it, with all of her heart, from the moment that Steve had said the words back to her, unprompted, on that first day at the cabin… 

But this: seeing it, real— there on the flesh of his arm. The arm that he’d lost, the words he’d forgotten, the memories that’d he’d had a right to, stolen from him— the confirmation that Fate had already laid out that terrible path for him… the wretched road he’d have to walk, to lead him to _her_… 

She was so _angry_… 

She took the clipping with her into the bathroom and carefully spread out a washcloth on the vanity, to protect the paper from any stray water drops when she lay it down on top, treating it like a precious thing, and when it was safely there, she kneeled down in front of the toilet, wrapped her fingers around her hair, gathering it up to hold it out of the way, and then she leaned forward and vomited up all of the food. 

When she was sure she was done, she stood up, rinsed out her mouth with water, turned off the tap, and looked at John again. 

He was still out there somewhere. He’d come through hell to reach her. He needed her help. She felt sick— angry at herself as well; frustrated that she was so useless. 

She turned on the shower, stripped down, and got in. Cleaned her hair and her body robotically, rinsed herself, and then turned off the water. Dried off and wrapped the towel around her body, letting her hair drip freely. Carefully dried her hands again, on another towel, and then picked up the clipping and took it back with her into the main room. 

Steve was still gone. 

She went to her bed, set the clipping down on the bedside table, next to the clock, and then pulled back the covers and threaded herself inside, the towel still wrapped around her body. 

She sank down deeper. Pulled the covers up to her chin. Shut her eyes. 

He was there in her mind, looking back at her. Wearing her words on his arm. 

Waiting. 

* * *

There was a light tapping on the door, and she thought it was Steve— woke up, confused, her mouth tasting horrible, and then she realized she’d slept through the night, without having brushed her teeth; had never heard Steve come in, though she could see the shape of his body under the covers of the other bed. The red digital numerals on the clock on the bedside table said 6:07am. 

She heard a rustling, saw Steve moving to get out of the bed next to hers. He sat up, flicked on the bedside lamp. He’d taken off his pants— had slept in his T-shirt and boxers— and he walked quietly over to the door. She could see him peer through the peep-hole, and then he looked back to her, saw that she was awake and watching him. 

“It’s a woman,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Red hair.” 

“Don’t open it,” said Darcy, feeling a tingle of fear. 

“Could be the message from Coulson,” he said. 

“Could be anyone,” she countered. 

She sat up, holding the sheets around her body as he looked through the peephole again, and she was going to tell him to wait— to let her get up, throw on some clothes. Do the handshake thing. Before she could do any of that, he was already unlocking the door, turning the lever that released the bolt. He left the flimsy metal chain on, and cracked the door as much as the chain would allow. 

Darcy could hear the woman’s voice— deep, a little scratchy. 

“Declan Palmer,” she said. 

“Who are you,” said Steve. 

“I’m Agent Romanov,” said the woman. “You don’t need to open the door.” 

She slid something through the space between the door and the jamb. It was a thick, nine-by-twelve envelope. 

“Be careful with that,” she said, and then she was gone, her footsteps almost silent as she walked down the hall, away from their room. 

“What is it,” said Darcy, after Steve had closed and re-bolted the door. 

He stood there a while, looking through the peephole, making sure the woman was really gone. 

“Did she say _Romanov_?” she said. “Like… the Russian royal family?” 

“She didn’t sound Russian,” said Steve. He opened the flap on the envelope and pulled out the first of a stack of files. She couldn’t see what it was, but Steve sucked in his breath. 

“It’s Russian, all right,” he said, shaking his head. “Can’t read a word of it. Looks old.” 

He flipped through a few more pages, and then he stopped, and cursed. “Aw, Christ.” 

“What is it?” she said, dreading the answer. 

“It’s him,” he said, looking up at her. “It’s Bucky.” 

* * *

“How could you keep this from us?” said Steve, his voice loud— angry— as he paced the hotel room. Darcy’s phone was lying face-up on the bed, and the voice of Phil Coulson answered: tinny, audible to both of them, over the speaker-phone: 

“Whatever Agent Romanov gave you— that’s coming from her,” he said. “I haven’t seen it, have no idea what was in the file. She has contacts— access to—” There was a pause. “She has channels she can tap into that are closed to me,” he said. 

Steve stopped his frenetic pacing for a moment to glance over to Darcy, who was sitting on her bed, silently sifting through the file with shaking hands. 

“You swear you didn’t know about—” 

“You have my word,” said Coulson. “Whatever Agent Carter was referring to… the— the rumors, or— any of that speculation happened before my time, and I was never made aware of it.” There was another pause. “I can’t promise you that _nobody_ was aware of it; I can only speak for myself. If the contents are of a highly sensitive nature, I can only surmise that—” 

“_Sensitive_,” said Steve, and he was pacing again. “It’s fuckin’ awful,” he said, and he could feel the air shaking in his lungs as he ground out the words. 

Truth was, ‘awful’ didn’t even begin to cover it: the pictures of Bucky— and it was definitely Bucky; at least two of the photographs had enough of his face in the frame to tell— strapped down, chopped up… depictions of torture, experimentation. Artificial limbs attached and then removed. Tests of various restraints. Punishment. 

He couldn’t read the Russian that accompanied the photographs, but it had the look and feel of some sort of cold, organized documentation. Like a medical textbook. Recording the results for future reference. For the next time. 

Darcy hadn’t said a word, nor had she shed any tears— had simply paged through it all, there on her bed, her face like stone. 

“But this Agent Romanov— she knew,” he said. “Or at least she knows now…” 

“I…hesitate to make any assumption regarding Agent Romanov,” said Coulson. “And she doesn’t report to me, so…” 

“It doesn’t even matter,” said Steve, muttering it, and then he raised his voice enough to be heard again. “She gonna pass a copy of it onto you?” 

“Unknown,” said Coulson. “I’ll advise you after I speak to her again.” 

“I’d like to speak to her myself,” said Steve. 

“I can try to arrange that,” said Coulson, sounding like he was relieved to be able to give them something. To placate them. 

“All right,” said Steve, and he was finally calming down somewhat. Reminding himself that Coulson wasn’t the enemy here. “She know who I am?” he said. “She, uh… she referred to me by my cover name…” 

“I think that was, uh… an attempt at humor,” said Coulson. 

“Humor,” said Darcy, finally speaking, and Steve looked over to her. She wasn’t sorting through the papers anymore— had them all spread out on the bed, like a macabre kind of storyboard… 

“I’m gonna hang up now,” said Steve. “I’ll call you when we get back.” 

“Be careful,” said Coulson. 

“That’s what Romanov said,” answered Steve, his voice grim, and then he picked up the phone and pressed the button to end the call. 

He moved to the side of Darcy’s bed. Sat down, carefully. Put his hand on her back, keeping it there even when he felt her flinch slightly from the touch. He wanted to say something— to reassure her somehow— but there was nothing to say. Nothing appropriate for what lay in front of them, fanned out on the bedspread. 

He watched as she gathered all the papers together again, her hands shaking, stacked them up, and returned them to the folder. “I don’t ever want to see those again,” she said, and she slid them back into the heavy envelope, and then pushed it away from her, to the edge of the bed. 

“Okay,” he said softly, his hand still on her back. 

“What about that one?” he said, noticing the picture from the Smithsonian— the one of Bucky in Europe, the one he’d found in his box. “You want me to add it to the envelope? Or put it back in the box?” 

“No,” she said. She looked over at it too, and then leaned forward to get it. Looked down at it as she held it in her lap. “I’m keeping this one. I mean, if it’s okay with you.” 

Steve shook his head a little. “Sweetheart,” he said. “Anything that’s gonna give you any kinda comfort, is A-okay with me.” 

She was still staring down at the picture— took in a ragged, shuddering breath, and then let it out slowly. 

“Guess this trip was more than we bargained for, huh,” she said. 

“You can say that again.” He leaned over and grabbed the thick envelope that contained the Russian file, and then slid off the bed, walked it over to his duffel bag and zipped it inside so she wouldn’t have to see it anymore. “But as tough as it’s been,” he added, “Feels like we just got our first real piece of information.” 

She looked up at him as he turned back around to face her. “We got Peggy to thank for that,” she said. “Without her memory, we never would’ve known to ask about it.” She gave him a tired little smile. “Your girl came through.” 

“Yeah,” he said. “She did.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://imgur.com/xIzFiJm)  

> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  



	21. Chapter 21

They never did get that meeting with Romanov. She was out of the country on assignment for most of March and April, and Coulson himself was unreachable for a number of weeks. That didn’t mean they had nothing to do. 

Though Darcy refused to look at any of the photos from the Soviet file again, she did the painstaking work of deciphering the Cyrillic text with the help of an online translator, and together she and Steve went over it, word-by-word. She was actually starting to build up quite a Russian vocabulary by the end— as least as far as being able to recognize the words by sight, if not actually pronounce them correctly. 

Unfortunately, the documentation of experiments, torture, and brainwashing did little more than serve as an ugly confirmation of what Bucky had endured before his long-term storage in Kazakhstan. And while the file stopped short of overtly confirming the decision to warehouse him, a rationale for the move could be inferred from the increasing concern over the subject’s resistance to a consistent and lasting submission. 

There were numerous and persistent concerns that his response to conditioning was highly erratic, and the blame, in theory, lay with the serum. Unlike their other assets, who responded as expected to the physical and mental methods of indoctrination, their American captive was far too resilient, the serum apparently mending what they continuously attempted to destroy. 

In spite of an ever-intensifying regimen of electroconvulsive ‘treatments’— all carefully documented, and at voltages which would have caused irreparable brain damage, if not flat-out cardiac arrest, in a regular human being—the serum seemed to protect him, and, over time, partially repair the damage done to his cognition and memory. 

In the confusion that followed— with those glimmers of some other buried ‘self’— there always came a resurgence of the will to resist. The same chemistry that had allowed them to create their very own super-soldier was also preventing him from becoming the puppet they needed. 

They were using him in the field in spite of these misgivings— there were references to jobs— mission reports. Targets and witnesses eliminated. According to the notes attached to the reports, he was often a wreck in the wake of a mission— confused and angry, sometimes becoming violent with his handlers— and they were having to take more extreme measures to subdue him, running enough electricity through his brain, both before and after a mission, to kill a typical human being many times over. 

It became a routine: unfreeze him, wipe him, start over. Wipe him again, put him back in the freezer. 

Eventually they were wiping him so frequently that it was becoming difficult for those involved in the program to justify using him for any but the most dangerous missions. There was a feeling that the resources and risks required to manage him had begun to outweigh his usefulness. 

The file ended with the hope that at some point in the future, improved research and technology— drug therapy, perhaps— would lead to better control over their American-born asset; if Darcy was translating the words correctly, there was an almost perverse kind of affection for their broken puppet: an unwillingness to ‘give up’ on him. 

In the meantime, and in conclusion, caution was advised to those who felt it necessary to use him. It was recommended that wipes err on the side of thoroughness, even at the risk of scrambling what was left of his brain— particularly in the wake of the 1972 incident— and there was already some discussion of finding a secure location to store him long-term, should the need arise. 

“I wonder what happened in 1972,” said Darcy. She was sitting at the computer, and she tilted her head back and forth, trying to stretch her tense muscles… could hear her neck crackling like a bag of marbles as she rotated her head. 

“Maybe Romanov could find out,” said Steve. “If we could just talk to the lady…” 

“I wonder if that means he was in there… just waiting, for…” She quickly did the math in her head. “God, for almost forty years. But why would they just leave him there?” 

“Maybe all the deep-storage stuff got lost in the shuffle, when the Soviet Union fell apart,” said Steve. He’d brought that _Penguin History of the Twentieth Century_ with them from the cabin, and had made his way way through the entire thing, several times over, trying to catch up on everything he’d missed while he was on ice. 

“We gotta talk to Romanov,” said Darcy. “Maybe she can put us in touch with one of her contacts… try to figure out the connection between the people back then, and… whoever’s still operating now.” 

“Coulson didn’t seem to think she’d be back until May,” said Steve. They both looked up at the calendar hanging on the wall above the computer; Darcy had drawn thick black X’s through the days that’d passed by. It was Thursday, April 26th. 

“If he doesn’t call us by the first of the month, I’m calling him,” said Darcy. “And if he doesn’t pick up, I’m gonna badger that girlfriend of his until she puts us in touch with him, wherever he is.” 

It was her little joke, referring to Agent May as Coulson’s ‘_girlfriend_’ whenever she spoke to the man. It was a ludicrous title for someone of the woman’s status and capabilities, not to mention her significance to him, personally. The best part of it was that she could tell he liked it: hearing the word… having some claim, even as a joke, to something so… normal. 

She suspected that, just like all of them— and in spite of all the elective choices he’d made— Phil Coulson, at times, craved a simpler life. 

* * *

The first day of May came and went, and Darcy, true to her word said, “I’m callin’ him tomorrow.” She was leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, watching Steve brush his teeth. 

He spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth with a handful of water from the tap, and then tapped his toothbrush off against the edge of the sink. “If you don’t, I will,” he agreed, looking at her in the mirror. “Feel like we need to keep the momentum going on this, or we’re gonna lose the few threads we finally got ahold of.” 

“It’s a deal,” she said, pushing off the jamb to move out of the way, so he could exit. “See you in the morning.” 

“Night,” he said, leaving the bathroom to her. 

* * *

She was lying on her back in bed, sifting through her thoughts—felt like she’d barely shut her eyes— when she heard the angry buzz of an incoming text. 

She sat up as she fumbled to grab the phone off the bedside table, worried— wondering what had happened: why Coulson or May was texting her this late at night. She unlocked the phone and stared at it, blinking at the harsh light of the screen in the dark room. 

The texts were brief, coming through rapid-fire, one after the other: 

_Entire base gone_. 

_Attacked— Asgardian_. 

_Loki. Brother Thor_. 

_Intentions unknown_. 

_Selvig and others compromised_. 

_Phil and I with Fury, safe for now_. 

_Do not attempt contact_. 

_Will call later from clean phone_. 

“You seein’ this?” came the voice of Steve, from across the hall, in the other bedroom. She could hear him getting up, stumbling out into the hallway. 

“Yeah,” she said, still trying to wake up. She pushed out of bed and threw on a robe; by the time she got out of the bedroom, Steve was already leaning over the computer in the main room, the screen glowing in the dark, lighting up his face and the bare skin of his chest. 

“News channels aren’t reporting it yet,” he said, as he clicked and scrolled with the mouse, going through the news feeds on the the browser. “Nothing.” 

“How can the entire base be gone?” she said, hugging her robe around herself. “What does that even mean?” 

“And Loki?” said Steve, straightening up. “Does that mean…” 

Darcy had told Steve all about the events in New Mexico: how Thor had fallen from the sky, stripped of his strength; how he’d said Jane’s words, and then had battled the giant robot thing that his power-mad brother, Loki, had sent down to slaughter them. 

“He’s supposed to be dead,” said Darcy, shaking her head. “Thor said… Jane told me that Thor saw him die. Or at least fall into the ‘_depths of endless space_,’ or something like that. Like, Thor was totally broken up about it, even though they tried to kill each other.” 

“Maybe it’s someone posing as him,” said Steve. 

“Sounds like it’s some serious shit going down, either way,” said Darcy. “Anyone who could destroy that entire base…” 

She was thinking of Kim and Andy, the friends she hadn’t spoken to since fleeing the base. Even Janelle, the irritating woman who’d worked across the aisle from her. As much as she had a bitter attitude toward SHIELD, there’d nevertheless been a lot of good people there, especially among the lower ranks. People just doing their jobs, hoping to make a difference. 

“What time is it?” she said, even though she still was holding her phone in her hand, too lazy to look for herself. 

“Comin’ up on eleven,” said Steve. He straightened up from the computer, ran a hand through his messy hair. “You gonna go back to bed?” 

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep,” she said, trudging over to the little breakfast table. “I’m worried about Eric.” She sat down heavily, looked at her phone again. “Compromised,” she said, after she’d read the texts for the third time. “What does that mean?” 

“In that context?” said Steve. “I’d assume it to mean he’s being used by the enemy, either through coercion or… by choice.” 

“He wouldn’t do anything bad by choice,” she said, shaking her head. “Eric’s a good man.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Steve. “I know Dr. Selvig was your friend.” 

“Don’t say ‘_was_’.” And then she frowned and stood up again. “God, _Jane_— I wonder if… if Loki was after Eric, then maybe— I should call Jane. If it’s really him— if it’s really Loki— then she could be in danger; he knew about her, her connection to Thor… Do you think—” 

“Use one of the burner phones,” he said, already moving toward the hall closet to get one; they had a whole box of clean, disposable phones hidden there, for emergencies, or if they needed to bug out. She was grateful that he wasn’t trying to talk her out of it. 

“But not here,” he said. “Let’s take a walk down the street.” 

* * *

They quickly threw on some clothes, and then walked down the few blocks to the bodega, which was closed up tight for the night, but gave them a sheltered area to stand while Darcy used one of the burner phones to call Jane, dialing the number she’d memorized. Steve stood by, looking around warily in the dark, but the neighborhood was mostly quiet— just a few stray people here and there, walking home from a night out. 

Jane picked up after just a few rings. “Who is this,” she said, her voice breathless. 

“It’s me— Darcy.” 

“Darcy? Oh my God, are you okay? I haven’t heard from you in—” 

“Are _you_ okay? Do you know about—” 

“SHIELD’s moving me, right now. Tonight. They’re sending me to Norway…” 

“Norway,” said Darcy incredulously. “Why Norway?” 

“Beats me,” said Jane. “But I won’t be able to talk to you at this number any more. God, I’m so glad you called…” 

“I’m calling from a burner,” said Darcy. “Have you heard from Thor? Does he know what’s going on?” 

“Crap,” said Jane, still out of breath. She sounded like she was running. “I gotta go. Like, right now. They’re practically shoving me out the door. I’ll try to reach you from there, okay?” 

The call abruptly cut off, and Darcy pulled the phone away from her ear, looked at it. “Fuck,” she said. 

“What happened,” said Steve. 

“She said they’re moving her to Norway. She sounded a little frantic.” 

“People who were assigned to watch her probably had the same concerns you did,” said Steve. “You done with the phone?” 

“Yeah, I guess so,” she said. She handed it over to him, and he dropped it to the sidewalk, crushed it by stomping on it. Bent over to scoop up the broken pieces, and then dumped them into the public trash can outside the bodega. 

“What now?” she said. 

“Let’s go back,” he said. “See if there’s any more news.” 

* * *

There were a few reports by the time they got back, SHIELD’s PR teams having apparently scrambled by then to put out some kind of cover story. The networks were all repeating the same press release, which was that there’d been an accident with an experimental energy source in the Mojave Desert, and that there was no danger to the public. There were no further details. The entire area was locked down by the military, including the little town with the gas station and the bar— nobody could get in. 

There was nothing else to do— nobody to call or any other way to get additional information— so they both tried to go back to bed. 

In the morning, it was still part of the news feed, but there weren’t any new details, and as they both sat fidgeting at the table over bowls of cereal, waiting for May to call, Steve finally pushed up and said he was going to go do a workout, try to burn off some of the nervous energy. 

There was an old-fashioned neighborhood gym nearby; when Steve had complained to Coulson, about a month ago, that there wasn’t anywhere he could discreetly keep himself tip-top, the man had simply found and then bought the entire building. It was now closed to the public between the hours of 9pm and 11am, during which Steve was free to use it, privately. 

Steve had been embarrassed by the extravagance of it, but had been somewhat mollified when Phil informed him the buyout had included a sizable donation of brand new equipment for a youth group that used the facility on weekdays after school. 

“Let me know if you hear anything,” she said, as he pocketed his phone and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. 

“You too,” he said. “I won’t be out for too long.” 

* * *

He was back in less than an hour— even sooner than she’d expected— and the serious look on his face as he came into the apartment, dropping all his stuff on the floor, scared her a little. He was holding a file folder that he hadn’t had when he left. 

“We gotta go,” he said, heading into the kitchen. He dropped the file on the table, and then went to the fridge and got out the Brita pitcher of cold water, poured himself a tall glass, and drank it all down in one go. 

“What?” she said. She’d been slowly working her way through a bagel slathered with too much cream cheese, but she abandoned it as she picked up on his intensity. “What is this?” she said, pulling the file toward her. She opened it up. There was a stack of printouts inside, paper-clipped together, with the SHIELD logo prominent on the letterhead. The top page had the words “Level 7” and “Tesseract” printed next to a photograph of a glowing blue cube. 

“What is this,” she said again, as Steve put the empty glass in the sink. 

He was already headed back to the entryway to grab his duffel bag again. “Fury came to see me at the gym,” he said. He disappeared into his bedroom, so she stood up and followed, carrying the file. He’d dumped all his gym stuff onto the bed, and was re-packing the bag with a few changes of clothing and some personal items. 

“_Nick_ Fury?” she said. Darcy had heard about the director of SHIELD, of course, but had never met the man. He was a legend. “Here? In Brooklyn?” 

“Yeah,” he said. He was moving briskly, and then he zipped up the bag and finally stopped moving. Looked her in the eye. “They’re callin’ me in. Something to do with the… the situation in the desert.” 

She let out a breath. “And you’re going?” 

“Didn’t get the impression it was optional,” he said. “And even if it were…” He nodded to the file. “I’ve seen that before. Seen what it can do. They’re gonna need me.” 

She was speechless, looking down at the file again, and then back to him. “What is it?” 

“You better pack a bag,” he said, and moved around her to get out of the room. “They offered to put you up at Stark Tower, and I think you should take them up on it. I’d feel better, knowin’ you were there, while…” 

She followed him to the entryway, where he put the bag down again, grabbed his brown leather jacket off the peg. “Got no idea what’s gonna happen…” 

“Stark Tower?” she repeated, still trying to catch up. “As in, Tony Stark? Iron Man?” 

“That’s the one,” he said. “We’re meeting Coulson there. Apparently I gotta hitch a ride to an aircraft carrier.” 

“Holy shit,” she said, the news finally starting to sink in. They were deploying him. 

“Go on, get your stuff,” he repeated. “Better hurry up.” 

“What is it?” she said again, still not moving. “What’s a Tesseract?” 

“I’ll tell you on the way.” 

* * *

Phil Coulson looked the same as ever: crisp, fresh suit; tidy hair; bland, unbothered manner. There was a slight smile on his face, which Darcy had learned, in her limited exposure to the man, was not to be confused for amusement. 

“You’re not gonna punch me again, are you?” he said. 

They were on one of the upper levels of Stark Tower, high above the city, the views of Manhattan spectacular through the floor-to-ceiling windows. There was a space-age-looking jet parked on a helipad that jutted out from the side of the building. 

“I’m not gonna apologize for that,” she said, not smiling at Coulson’s attempt at levity. 

“Fair enough,” said Coulson, taking it in stride. 

“What’s going on?” she said. “Is it really Loki? I thought Thor said he was dead.” 

“Apparently he’s back,” said Coulson, and then he turned to Steve. “We need to go. She’ll be safe here.” 

Steve turned to her then, dropped the duffel bag yet again, and she went to him— sank into his big body as he hugged her tight. 

“Be careful,” she murmured into his chest, suddenly realizing that they were really about to be separated— no telling when he’d get back— after nearly six months of almost constantly being in each other’s company. She was going to feel like she was missing a limb. 

“You too,” he said, and then he pulled back, one hand smoothing down the back of her hair, and then he picked his bag back up, and followed Coulson out to the jet without looking back. They climbed up the ramp of the jet, and it closed up behind them, sealing them away. 

She watched them take off, her eyes on the jet until it was just a speck in the sky, and only then did she turn to the attractive, crisply-dressed brunette who was waiting politely nearby; she’d introduced herself earlier as one of Mr. Stark’s personal assistants. Darcy wondered how many he had. Probably a whole platoon. 

“Miss Lewis?” said the woman, acknowledging her again. “If you’re ready, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.” 

It was weird, being called by her real name. But it was nice. She was glad they’d offered to put her up, instead of fretting over Steve in their little Brooklyn apartment, feeling vulnerable. Stark Tower was like a fortress. She’d be safe here. 

* * *

She didn’t feel safe two days later, when the portal to space opened up over the skies of Manhattan— directly over the Tower, in fact— and alien aircraft began to spill out, spreading over the city like an infestation, blasting at people and buildings with long-ranged laser attacks that looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. It was completely and utterly surreal, but after the previous twenty-four hours, ‘_surreal_’ was starting to feel like par for the course. 

The day before, she’d stood in the executive lounge, alongside a group of Stark employees, watching the live coverage out of Stuttgart, finding it hard to believe that she was really watching Steve— her roommate, her friend— looking like a comic-book character in his head-to-toe blue Captain-America uniform, engaging in hand-to-hand combat with a man in a long green cape, and a helmet with huge, curving golden horns. 

It was definitely Loki, back from the dead— if dead he’d ever been— and her heart had skipped several beats, her veins tingling with fear, when she’d realized, along with everyone else, that Steve— impressive though he was— was no match for an alien demigod with magical powers. 

She’d actually shut her eyes at one point, not wanting to see him struck down on live television, but opened up again when the employees around her began to whoop and cheer: Iron Man had arrived on the scene, just in the nick of time, backed up by a couple of SHIELD agents in a Quinjet. Loki had surrendered shortly afterwards. 

She was back in the guest suite, watching the coverage— it was running on a continuous loop on all the stations— when Steve called her, several hours later. He told her he was up in the sky, on some kind of floating aircraft carrier— something she’d have to see to believe. 

“You okay?” she said, her eyes involuntarily stinging, just from the sound of his voice. “I saw you— saw the footage from Stuttgart; it’s all over the TV, and—” 

“Darcy, listen to me,” he said, cutting her off. His voice was hushed, and he sounded like he was walking briskly. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on, but there’s things… I don’t know what to think. Who to believe. I just found a cache of Hydra-style weapons and tech, here on this ship. Locked away. Crates full of it.” 

“Hydra,” she said, repeating it. “But why—” 

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice sounding grim. “But if I don’t come back—” 

“Don’t say that,” she said, interrupting him. “You’re coming back.” 

“If I don’t come back,” he repeated, his voice steady, “Be careful who you trust. I’m gonna see if I can feel out Romanov, see whose side she’s really on…” 

“She’s there? On the ship?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Have you—” 

“There hasn’t been time for anything but dealin’ with this situation we got going on, but I promise you, if we get out of this… If we— I’m gonna talk to her about Bucky, first chance I get.” He lowered his voice even more. “I gotta go. Promise me you’ll be careful. Do the handshake thing with everyone— _everyone_. You hear?” 

He’d had to hang up then, leaving her to fret alone in the guest suite, staring at the same footage over and over… ‘_Captain America’s Triumphant Return_,’ they were calling it, even though he’d almost gotten his ass kicked. 

She went to bed early and was up early, had breakfast in the public cafeteria in the Tower, and was back up in her room by mid-morning when he called again. 

The connection was poor. There was a lot of background noise, and there was an urgency in his voice— even more so than the night before. 

“Darcy?” he said, as soon as she picked up. “Everything’s— look— I really… if anything happens to me… keep looking for him, okay? You’re gonna find him. I know you’re gonna find him. Don’t give up, you hear me? You keep working with May, you—” 

“What happened?” she said, standing up from the couch, freaked out by the seriousness of his tone. “What’s going on?” 

“We’re on our way to the city right now,” he said “Me and Romanov and Barton… we think Loki’s gonna— Look, if I don’t come back… tell him. Tell Buck, when you see him…” 

“You’re gonna tell him yourself,” she said, her voice wobbly, and she was really getting frightened, because she’d never heard him sound like this before. Even the night before, when he’d said the same thing: ‘_if I don’t come back_’— it hadn’t seemed serious. 

It was different now. Like he meant it. Like he knew it was a real possibility. 

“Get somewhere safe over there,” he said. “We don’t know what he’s aimin’ to do, but Thor says he has an army, and we think he might be planning to use the Tower for something…” 

There was a loud rumble, like an earthquake. She both heard and felt it— like something large had moved the air around the Tower, compressing all the masonry, and she instinctively flinched and ducked— and then Steve’s voice got distant, like he was speaking away from the phone for a second before coming back: “Oh, God. They’re already— the whole goddammed city’s under attack… Listen to me: you gotta get underground; try to—” 

The line abruptly cut out, and she lowered the phone, her hand shaking. There was another loud rumble, and she went to the window of the guest suite, clicked the button to raise the virtual shade, and just about shit herself when she saw the scene outside: lines of alien craft were zipping between the skyscrapers, little explosions of fire and smoke all around as their energy weapons struck the sides of the buildings they fired upon… 

“Holy shit,” she said, her legs turning to Jello, and she almost gave up and sat down, right there on the sleek carpet, but just then the building’s gentle-sounding AI came over the P.A. system, calmly instructing everyone in the Tower to proceed to the lower levels and report to their designated emergency shelters. 

She sprang into action then— grabbed the mini backpack she was using as a purse, quickly put on her shoes and shoved her phone in her pocket, and then she was out the door, joining the orderly stream of other VIP-level personnel and guests heading to the bank of elevators. She had no idea where she was meant to go, so she just followed along with the others, the elevator going down for an eternity until they were let off several floors underground, and she was granted entrance to what was likely the most swanky emergency bunker on the planet. 

It looked more like a cocktail lounge than a shelter, with several large areas of comfortable seating, facing wall-sized arrays of media screens that were tuned to a multitude of worldwide news channels. There was a boardroom-style table on the other side of the room, where a number of well-dressed, serious-looking men and women were already manipulating some of Stark’s virtual touchscreens in the air, analyzing the building integrity and damage reports. A full-size, apparently self-service bar stocked with an incredible selection of alcohol was already being appreciated by a half-dozen sharp-talking executive-types. 

Darcy made a beeline for the bar right off the bat— skipped the cocktail glasses in favor of a pint glass, and filled it up halfway with top-shelf whiskey before finding an empty spot on one of the overstuffed couches. Every station on the wall of flatscreens was reporting the same breaking news: _New York Under Attack_. 

A nerdy-looking guy sitting a couple of cushions over from her glanced at the large glass she was holding and raised his eyebrows. 

“What,” she said, after she swallowed a gulp of the drink. 

It was smooth as hell— good stuff— but it still burned, all the way down, and for a second she closed her eyes— was back in the desert with John… she closed her eyes and breathed it out. Didn’t want to think about that right now… 

“That all whiskey?” said the nerdy guy, who was still looking over at her. 

“You got a problem with that?” she said, without taking her eyes off the biggest TV screen. 

“Not at all,” said the nerdy guy. “That’s the best idea I’ve seen all day.” 

She snorted in response as he stood up and disappeared. 

He returned in a minute, his own giant glass of whiskey in hand, and raised it to her. “Here’s to the end of the world,” he said. 

Another guy, standing nearby, also watching the screen, made a derisive sound. “World’s not gonna end,” he said. “Mr. Stark’s out there.” 

There wasn’t any live coverage of the battle— all civilians not already underground, including media, were being evacuated from Midtown— but the networks were replaying shaky amateur videos that’d been shot by bystanders before they’d gotten out, all of them boasting of their ‘exclusive’ coverage while the city burned… 

The guy gestured to one of the screens, where they could see footage of Iron Man cruising high in the sky, straight down Park Avenue, banking sharply so that the aliens following him crashed into the side of a building… 

“Thor’s out there, too,” said a woman. 

“Wait, Thor’s here?” asked Darcy, standing up. 

“Yeah,” said the woman. “If you run back the footage from the Tower’s security cameras, you can see him fighting the guy with the horns…” The woman grabbed a remote control from the coffee table and fiddled with the controls. A moment later, Darcy could see it on one of the other screens: Thor in his red cape, going in and out of the stationary frame; he was struggling with the dark-haired man from Stuttgart— Loki. 

“Jane,” she whispered, involuntarily, wondering if her friend was watching it, wherever she was… 

“I’m worried about those other two,” said the woman. “The ones on our side. The redhead’s just got a couple of pistols on her, and the guy? All he’s got is a bow-and-arrow. Against _lasers_. I mean, they’re just… regular people. Against all _that_.” 

_Redhead_… it had to be Agent Romanov out there, fighting the aliens alongside Steve and the other guy he’d flown in with: Barton, whoever that was. _Don’t get yourself killed_, she thought, selfishly, of the redhead. _We still need you_. 

“That portal’s directly over us,” said a man uneasily. “Couldn’t have picked a worse spot to be, in the whole of Manhattan…” 

“We’ll be fine,” said another man. “This bunker was built to withstand a nuclear strike.” 

“Those are freakin’ aliens out there,” argued the first man. “How the hell we know what kind of power they could unleash?” He gestured to the footage, where you could plainly see the blindingly bright streaks of light from the aliens’ energy weapons. “They might have something that could blow up the whole planet, for all we know.” 

“What would be the point of attacking us, if their plan was to blow up the whole planet?” said the other guy. 

Darcy wished they’d both shut up. What difference did it make? Whatever happened was gonna happen; who cared which person’s prediction was correct? It seemed like even when the entire world was being turned upside-down, some people just liked to argue… 

She could see Steve now, in some of the clips, as more amateur video was picked up by the networks: he was running around like a madman, throwing himself into the line of fire, over and over, his shield on his arm. He was incredible to watch— like a kind of Superman— and yet, seeing the sheer numbers he was up against, all she could feel was anxiety… 

“I wish we knew what was going on up there,” said the woman. “On the roof.” 

The cameras on the roof of the Tower had been destroyed, and deep down underground, they had no sense of what was happening outside, other than drawing conclusions from the AI’s damage-report, which was updating continuously. The building’s exterior was taking some fire, but the structure itself was sound— the aliens seemed to be avoiding deliberate hits on the Tower, perhaps to avoid disrupting the portal. 

One of the guys nearby was monitoring a police scanner with his tablet, and he said, “There’re reports of the Hulk joining the fight,” he said. “National Guard, too.” 

“God, is there gonna be anything left when it’s over?” said a woman. “Remember what happened in Harlem? And that was just the Hulk fighting one other guy. What’s gonna happen when he’s fighting a whole army?” 

Darcy had to tune it out after a while, the constant speculation driving her crazy— just stared at the screens and nursed her whiskey. After another half-hour where things were looking more and more grim, she put her half-empty glass on the side-table next to the couch and got up to search for a bathroom, taking her mini-backpack with her. 

She didn’t even need to pee; she’d just wanted to get away from the chatter of the Stark employees. They’d all been drinking too, and their voices and arguments had become progressively more animated and loud, and all she could think about was how she didn’t want to die surrounded by a bunch of corporate assholes in fancy suits. 

She went into a stall, locked herself in, closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. Put her head in her hands. Tried to breathe. A few people came and went, and she was still just sitting there, elbows on her knees, the heels of her palms pressed into her forehead. 

She sat up a little, rotated the mini-backpack around to her front, and unzipped the bigger pocket. Took out the little cardboard sleeve that she kept the picture of John in— the one where she could see his words. She stared at it, wondering if the world was going to end before they even got a chance to see each other again. 

_Where are you_, she thought. _Are you okay?_

_I miss you_. 

She stared at his face until her eyes were too watery to see, and then she put the photo away, wiped her eyes, stood up and flushed the toilet out of habit, and then washed her hands robotically and returned to the lounge. 

* * *

“Lewis? Darcy Lewis? Is there a Darcy Lewis down here?” 

It was a woman’s voice— loud, pitching itself to be heard— coming closer through the room. 

The battle was over: Iron Man had risked his life to shuttle a nuke up through the portal above his Tower (and hadn’t that been a little unnerving, after the fact, considering what would have happened if he’d been a few seconds too slow); the detonation, wherever he’d sent it, had disabled all the alien troops still on the ground, as they lost their connection to the hive mind, or whatever it was that was powering them. Someone up on the roof had managed to disable the portal then, effectively ending the invasion. 

Everyone down in the bunker had whooped and high-fived each other once the news had come through the channels, and then even more people were dipping into the booze— this time in celebration. Darcy, for her part, had finished off most her giant glass of whiskey, hoping to knock herself out. She knew they’d all be stuck down there a while longer, until they issued the all-clear. She’d fallen asleep. 

Now she was sitting up, bleary-eyed, responding to the woman’s voice calling her name. 

“I’m Darcy Lewis,” she said, her voice sounding like a frog, and she stopped to clear it and said it a little louder: “I’m Darcy Lewis!” 

“Miss Lewis,” said the woman, making a beeline for her. “There’s a Dr. Selvig in medical. He was asking for you, after Captain Rogers told him you were on the premises somewhere.” 

“Where’s Steve?” she said, as she scrambled to get up. “I mean… Captain Rogers. Is he okay?” 

“As far as I know, yes. He went to get something to eat with Mr. Stark and the others, I believe.” 

Darcy smiled at that. Of course he had. He was hungry— he was okay… 

And then she remembered what Steve had told her: she stood up and held out her hand, like she was offering a handshake. The other woman gave her an odd look, but followed through, shaking Darcy’s hand— maybe thinking it some kind of odd, ‘_hooray we’re not dead_’ kind of thing. 

The woman was clean— no nausea. Darcy dropped her hand and shouldered her mini-backpack, and began to follow her back toward the elevators. 

“How’s Eric? I mean, Dr. Selvig?” 

The woman glanced back, her face sobering a little. “He’s physically all right, as far as I know… I’m not a doctor…” 

“Have you seen Coulson around?” 

The woman frowned. “I’m sorry, who?” 

“Never mind.” 

* * *

She was sitting next to Eric’s bed, dozing off a little again, her body still working on metabolizing the whiskey. One of the staff in the med bay had scrounged up a banana for her, for which she was grateful. 

Dr. Selvig had fallen asleep shortly after she’d reached his bedside, which was another thing to be grateful for: she’d seen something frightening in his face when he’d looked at her, even though he’d smiled and even teared up a little bit when she’d first walked into the room. 

He’d suffered a terrible trauma at the hands of Loki, who’d done something horrible to Eric’s mind, to control him. She was glad he’d been able to fall asleep. They were giving him some good drugs. 

“Darcy?” 

She inhaled sharply, blinking her eyes open, and looked up: it was Steve. He’d just stepped into the room; he was holding his duffel bag and his shield, and he set both of them down by the door. 

“Oh my God,” she said, almost knocking her chair over in her rush to stand up. She was going to hug him straight away, but then she reconsidered when she got a better look at him. 

He was still wearing his Captain America uniform, minus the cowl, but it was filthy, and riddled with bloody rips. His face was so careworn that she almost didn’t recognize the expression on it. He looked like he’d been run over by a truck. 

He sensed her hesitation and reached out to her: “C’mere,” he said, and when she got closer, he pulled her into him, wrapping her up in his big, strong arms. He smelled of smoke and iron and something else— maybe electricity. 

“You okay?” she said softly, letting the tears come as her cheek pressed into his chest. “I was so scared for you… when you called, you sounded so…” 

“I was,” he said. His voice was hoarse, like he’d been yelling for hours— probably had been. “I didn’t think— it didn’t look too good. We got lucky. If Dr. Selvig hadn’t put in that fail-safe…” 

“Fuck,” she said, not wanting to think about it: the _could have been_— and just squeezed him a little tighter. “Where’s Loki? Is he dead?” 

“No,” said Steve. “They’re holding him until Thor can take him back to… to Asgard, I guess.” 

“Where is he, anyway? Where’s Thor?” 

“Said he had to go see his lady,” said Steve, and when she looked up his face, he was actually smiling, just a little. “He’ll be back tomorrow morning.” He sighed— a big one, and finally released her and said, “Is there another chair? I’m beat…” 

“Here, take mine,” she said, gesturing to the one visitor’s chair. 

“You sure?” 

“God, are you kidding me? Sit down. Or you know what? Let’s find somewhere else to go— let Eric rest. You get enough to eat?” 

“Didn’t really eat much,” he said, as he picked up his stuff again and followed her out of the room. “Don’t really…” The statement drifted off, unfinished, and she realized that the man was dead on his feet. 

“I think you need to sleep,” she said. 

“Probably right.” 

“You can take my bed in the guest suite; it’s really nice. I’ll set up on the couch.” 

“You sure?” he said again. “Stark said something about making room for everyone here…” 

“You can figure that out tomorrow. Come on.” 

“All right,” he said. They were standing at the elevators now, and he shook his head. “Feels like a dream,” he said. 

They were quiet the rest of the way up to the room— he actually had his eyes shut when she glanced over, just before they reached her floor. 

“Here we are,” she said, and he jerked awake, followed her down the hallway to her room, where she scanned her palm on the electronic lock, granting them entrance. 

“You wanna take a shower or anything?” 

“Probably should,” he said. “Maybe have a glass of water first.” He dropped his stuff next to the couch and sat down heavily. 

“I’ll get it,” she said. 

When she returned with the water, not more than a minute later, he’d already tipped over on the couch, and was breathing heavily, sound asleep. 

* * *

When Darcy woke up the next morning, it took her a minute to remember it all: the aliens. The battle. She pushed out of bed and padded out to the suite’s livingroom, and saw that Steve was still fast asleep on the couch. He’d never even made it out of his scuffed-up Captain America uniform. 

She went into the kitchenette and heated up the coffeemaker— it was just one of the crappy pod-types, with a selection of coffees and teas— and made herself a cup of unflavored black coffee. The cycle was just finishing with a final hiss and puff of steam when she heard his voice, coming from the couch behind her. 

“Make one for me?” 

“Sure thing,” she said, moving her full mug out of the way. She popped out the used pod and put in a new one, got down another mug from the cupboard, and slid it into place. Waited for the ‘ready’ light to come back on. 

“You sleep all right?” he asked. 

She pressed the brew button for a full cup, and turned to face him while she waited, the machine burping and gurgling behind her. “I should be asking you that,” she said. “I feel bad; you spent the whole night on the couch after everything…” 

He didn’t even bother arguing, as he normally would— he still looked exhausted. 

“I gotta go see where everyone’s at,” he said. “Supposed to meet up, see Thor off…” 

“You think he’s back already?” 

“Don’t know,” he said. “We weren’t too firm on plans… think we were all in a daze.” 

“Where’d they put Loki?” she said. “Did Coulson take him off to some kind of super-secret holding pen for demigods?” 

She was being deliberately flip— she knew a lot of people had probably died in the battle, before the city’d been evacuated— but she wasn’t ready to think about that yet. Steve hadn’t replied, and she worried her lower lip a little with her teeth as she picked up the two mugs, thinking maybe she should have struck a more somber tone. 

“Coulson’s dead,” he said, just as she turned to walk the coffees over. 

She stopped short, sloshing some of the hot liquid onto her hands, but she didn’t even register the burn. 

“What?” 

He was still sitting on the couch— his head was bowed, and he rubbed his forehead with his hand. “Didn’t get a chance to tell you last night,” he said. “Loki put a spear right through his chest. He hung on long enough to talk to Fury, but…” 

“He’s _dead?_” 

It wasn’t registering. She was just standing there, holding the mugs, and it wasn’t real… 

And then Steve was standing up, coming over to take the mugs out of her hands and put them back down on the countertop. 

“Are you fucking with me?” she said, distantly aware that she sounded a little hysterical. “You’re not fucking with me— of course you’re not.” She laughed, and it sounded crazy. “You’d never joke about something like that. Oh God…” 

She turned around and leaned against the counter, pressing her palms into the edge of it. 

“God _dammit_,” she said, and she was shaking a little, and then she turned and looked up at him again, and his face was so sad that it helped to drive it home. 

“He’s really dead?” 

“Yeah,” he said softly. 

She thought about it then: about the last time she’d seen him, just what— a day? Two days ago? And then she was crying, as it fully sank in, and she realized that the last thing she’d said to Coulson was that she wasn’t going to apologize to him, ever. 

Turned out she was right. 

“Goddammit,” she said again, and then, “God, _May_… who’s gonna tell May?” 

“Don’t know,” he said. “I’m guessing that’s Fury’s job.” 

“Fuck,” she said, not wanting to imagine it, but her brain went there anyway. Pictured it. May being told, ‘_He’s gone_,’ or some other euphemism meant to soften the blow… as if anything could do that… 

Darcy’s phone rang then, and she picked it up, dreading that maybe it was May, because who else— but no: it was an unknown number. 

She tapped the green circle to connect, and held the phone up to her ear, making eye contact with Steve as she answered. “Hello?” 

“Rogers with you?” said the female voice on the other end. 

“Who is this?” 

“Romanov.” 

“Yeah,” said Darcy. “He’s here. You wanna talk to him?” 

“No,” she said. “Just tell him Thor’s back. Meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes.” 

* * *

They slammed their coffees, Steve taking his into the bathroom with him, where he took a five-minute shower, and emerged with wet hair and clean, if rumpled, clothes on. 

Darcy had just thrown on a change of clothes and pulled her hair into a ponytail. She didn’t care what she looked like. She shoved the rest of her stuff into her bigger backpack, put on her sneakers, and was ready to go. 

Romanov was there in the lobby; Darcy finally got her first real look at the woman. In the shaky TV footage, all she’d been able to tell was that she probably had the best body Darcy had ever seen on any human being in her life, especially when poured into a skintight black bodysuit— and that she was very, very good at close combat. 

She hadn’t realized until now that she was also small— possibly no more than Darcy’s five-foot-three, if she hadn’t been in high-heeled boots. She was wearing a gorgeous, fitted leather jacket the color of fresh butterscotch, which set off her bobbed red hair to great advantage. She was standing next to a haggard-looking man in scruffy black pants and a grey hoodie, his expression hidden behind dark black sunglasses. Darcy recognized him as the archer. 

“Hey,” said Steve, as he walked over to them. “What’s the plan.” 

“Stark and Banner are already headed over there,” said Romanov. “Told them we’d meet them there.” 

The archer seemed to be appraising Darcy from behind his sunglasses, and then Steve remembered his manners: “Hey, uh… this is Darcy. Darcy Lewis.” 

The man held out his hand and Darcy shook it. “Barton,” he said. “Clint.” Then he actually cracked a grin and said, “How you guys likin’ my place in Bed-Stuy?” 

“That’s yours?” she said, unable to mask her surprise. “We didn’t— nobody ever— I mean, Coulson—” She stopped then, abruptly. Nobody prompted her to continue. 

The woman— Romanov— was looking between her and Steve, and something about it was making Darcy a little twitchy— like she was being assessed. But all the other woman said was, “You guys ready to go? Tony let me take one of his cars, if you can believe that…” 

“Ready when you are,” said Steve. 

* * *

They were the last ones to get there, the line of cops and national guardsmen and SHIELD agents letting them through, while working to keep back the crowds of curious onlookers hoping to snap a selfie with one of the newly-dubbed _Avengers_… 

Journalists were shouting out Steve’s name— or rather that of his persona— yelling for “Cap” to turn around, show his face, make a comment… 

They all ignored it, their eyes only on the half-circle of people standing around Thor and his striking, pale-faced brother, who looked decidedly less menacing without his golden-horned helmet, and with some kind of metal muzzle covering his mouth… 

Darcy hadn’t planned to interrupt the proceedings— Thor obviously occupied with watching over his captive brother— but as soon as the golden-haired god turned and saw her approaching with the others, his voice boomed out— “_Lady Darcy!_”— his face changing from something somber into the soft smile she remembered, and before she could help herself, she was racing toward him, and was soon wrapped up his gigantic, meaty arms. 

“Hey, big guy,” she whispered, hugging him as tightly as her comparatively tiny arms could. “Did you see Jane?” she asked, when she pulled back. 

“I did indeed,” he said, his big hands moving to her biceps. “And I gave her my pledge that I should return as soon as I have leave to do so, but first I must return Loki to Asgard so that he may answer for his crimes.” 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, meeting his eyes, and she could see the pain and the conflict that lay within… 

“And you?” he said. “Jane told me of your struggles— your search for your mate… have you had any luck with…” 

She was humbled that he was even bothering to ask about her personal problems at such a time, but that was Thor. It was so easy to remember, once in his presence, why it was effortless for Jane to love him— would have, even without her soul composing the instructions for her heart… 

“No,” she said, and she knew that, just as she’d seen his pain, he could read hers too. “There’s just— there’s so little to go on. Everything we have is from the past. Nothing that tells us where he is _now_…” 

Thor’s eyebrows wrinkled as he looked at her. “I shall be in the presence of Heimdall in a matter of minutes. Should you grant me leave to do so, I would be honored to ask him to seek him out, on your behalf.” 

“What?” she said, her heart stuttering a little. “Who’s Heimdall? Is that the guy who sucks you up into space?” 

“Indeed,” said Thor, his face softening again. “He is the guardian of the Bifrost, and more than that: there is little in the nine realms that is hidden from his eye, should he choose to see…” 

“You mean he could— you think he could tell us where John— I mean, where Bucky is?” 

“If your man is alive and unaffected by certain… magics, then yes: he should be able to sense something.” 

She was already fumbling at her little backpack-purse, reaching for the cardboard sleeve, the photograph she carried with her everywhere. She hated to give it up, but— 

“Will this help?” she said, handing it over. “His name is Barnes. James Barnes.” 

Thor opened it up and looked at it, and then closed it again. “Indeed it shall. And now I must go, before my brother devises some new scheme to evade justice once again.” His eyes flicked briefly to Barton’s— nodded fractionally to the man, and then returned his eyes to Darcy’s. “I shall speak to you again, as soon as I have word,” he said. “You have my oath.” 

She stepped back finally, trying to convey her thanks through her eyes, only then realizing how many people had been watching the exchange— not just the other so-called ‘Avengers’, but the crowds of people being held back, and for a moment she felt incredibly vulnerable— realized that she and Steve were completely exposing themselves in a way they’d been painstakingly avoiding for almost six months… 

Thor stepped back into the center of the small group that was ringing him and his brother— the others keeping a healthy distance, all of them on guard… the weight of palpable hostility in the air... 

Darcy couldn’t blame them; the ride to the park had woven them through the wreckage, some places still smoking— evidence of needless carnage all around. There wasn’t an estimated body count yet, but it was sure to be in the hundreds… 

Thor didn’t say another word— merely nodded to his newfound friends, honoring the strength of the bonds forged in battle, and then with a twist of the handle on the cylinder that now contained the Tesseract, there was a brief but blinding flash of light, and then he and his dark-haired brother were gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why I didn't tag for "Major Character Death", it's because I'm going with canon as far as Coulson's journey goes, so technically...
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  



	22. Chapter 22

“You guys want a ride back to Brooklyn, or you planning to hole up at the Tower for a while?” said Romanov. 

Stark and Banner had already taken off, in one of Stark’s too-expensive-to-exist sports-cars. The two mega-brains were eager to get back to some project they were already cooking up, leaving the rest of them standing there at the edge of the park. 

“You think it’s safe to go back to Brooklyn?” said Steve, looking around. 

There were city cops and national guardsmen still ringing the larger area, keeping civilians and press well away from the spot where the two Asgardians had just vanished into thin air, but the crowd was still pressing against the barriers: people trying to take pictures, waving papers at them for autographs… 

They’d seen a number of camera crews scramble to follow Stark and Banner, shamelessly shoving through the crowd with their stuff, jumping into their own vehicles to give chase. Steve had watched it all with growing unease; he’d been in the limelight before, in the 40s, but it’d been nothing like this… 

One brave (or foolish, depending on how you looked at it) paparazzo had managed to get through earlier— had snapped off a couple of pictures; he’d paid for it with a swift sock in the face from Romanov when the flash had gone off in her peripheral vision. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she’d said dryly, as the man had stumbled back, falling onto his ass. “Guess my head’s still back in the battle…” 

Barton, meanwhile, had confiscated the man’s camera, and then had ‘fumbled’ it, saying, “oops,” just before it smashed on the pavement. 

The two New York cops who’d intervened had pointedly ignored both the man’s complaints of battery, as he pressed a hand to his soon-to-be-black eye, and his demand for compensation for the destruction of property. 

“You kiddin’ me?” said one of them, while the other said, “You made your choice, pal,” as they dragged him away. 

“Don’t worry about the press,” said Barton now. “Tasha’ll lose ‘em. You wanna get back to Brooklyn, she’s your best bet.” 

“Rather go there, than back to the Tower,” admitted Steve. “Midtown’s gonna be a mess for a good long while…” 

Steve had offered to help the search and rescue teams comb the rubble— with his super-strength, he could lift and carry things that the rescue workers relied on machines to do— but the various agencies had waved him off, wary of the unwanted attention Steve would attract while they worked the scene. Now that he was seeing all the crowds, and the aggression of the press, he had a better appreciation for the kind of circus the workers were hoping to avoid… 

“Might be a good idea, now that the cat’s outa the bag,” said Barton. “Everyone’s gonna be eyeballin’ the Tower, but ain’t nobody gonna bother you at my place. Coulson and Fury are the only other people even know it exists...” He trailed off uneasily. They were all still doing that; still referring to Coulson in the present tense... 

“Left my bag at the Tower,” said Steve. “And my shield.” 

“Gonna be needing it in the next ten hours?” said Romanov. “I’ll be back there later tonight; I can grab it for you.” 

Steve looked at Darcy, silently asking for her opinion, and she nodded her approval. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go home.” 

* * *

Barton had been right about Romanov— she knew how to handle a vehicle— and though they were clearly being tailed by a half-dozen news teams at first, they’d dropped all of them before they’d even gotten to the bridge. 

Once they’d shaken them all, the redhead glanced over to Barton, who was sitting next to her up front, the man snickering in obvious delight. 

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” she said quietly. 

“You’re good at cheerin’ me up,” he said. “You see that guy almost hit the lamp-post?” 

Romanov granted him a tiny smirk and then put her eyes back on the road. 

Darcy, in the back with Steve, was trying to figure out the relationship there: were they soulmates? They certainly acted like it, though she hadn’t seen anything more intimate pass between them than a certain kind of silent communication… 

Whatever their connection, she was glad Barton had a friend; he was going to need it, after what Loki had put him through. It didn’t help that the news reports were keeping a macabre tally of Barton’s confirmed kills, as more information came to light. 

They were downplaying the fact that Barton, like Selvig, had been under some kind of mind control, choosing to focus on the more sensational story: the number of deaths-by-arrow in the last three days, as the result of someone with his training and skill being hijacked by an enemy combatant. 

Some of the editorials were taking it further, wondering whether the so-called ‘Avengers’ posed a threat to the general public, and whether some kind of governmental oversight for the instantly famous heroes was indicated… 

Romanov had apparently been steering Barton well away from the news. That, along with the way she’d handled the paparazzo back at the park, had earned her a massive number of points with Darcy, in spite of the way she’d initially felt scrutinized by her, back at the Tower. 

“We can have that talk now,” she said to Steve and Darcy, turning her head to address them. They’d come to a stop in the alley behind Barton’s building; Romanov hadn’t wanted to draw attention by pulling up out front in such a fancy car. “Just give me a few minutes to get rid of this thing, and then I’ll come by your room.” 

“It’s—” 

Steve had been about to tell her their apartment number, but the woman had merely smirked at him, and he’d stopped and smiled, dropping his head. “Of course,” he said, sardonically. “Stupid of me.” 

“See you in a minute,” she said, once they’d gotten out, and then drove off, leaving the three of them in the alley. 

“Where’s she going?” said Darcy. 

“Got a garage nearby,” said Barton. He had a rucksack on his shoulder, and he dug a set of keys out of it; they jangled as he leaned to unlock a door on the back side of the building. 

There was a short, dark hallway, and then another locked door, and Barton opened up that one as well, and then they were at the far end of the ground floor, on the other side of a door that Darcy had always assumed led to some sort of machine room. She wondered if he always came in the building this way— if that’s why she’d never seen him before. But she’d never seen him on the stairs, either, or anywhere in the neighborhood. 

They all trudged tiredly up the steps, and when they got the landing for Steve and Darcy’s floor, they lingered for a moment. 

“You want some coffee?” said Steve. “Somethin’ to eat? Don’t know what we got, but…” 

“Nah,” said Barton. “I, uh… I think I’m gonna lie down for a while. Got a place up top. Thanks, though.” 

“All right, then,” said Steve. 

“It was nice to meet you,” said Darcy, and Barton gave her a silent nod in acknowledgment before he turned and started up the next flight of stairs. They could hear the shuffle of his feet as he kept going up, while they headed down the hall to their apartment. 

“So weird,” whispered Darcy, as she stood behind Steve, waiting to get back into their room. “You ever seen him around here before?” 

“Nope,” said Steve. 

“You think I need to handshake him?” said Darcy, once they were inside. “Or her? I mean… I hate to seem…” 

“I’m the one told you not to trust anyone,” said Steve, as he shouldered off his jacket and hung it up. “But I don’t think we gotta worry about Barton. Or Natasha.” 

She noted his switch to using the woman’s given name, but didn’t bother to tease him about it. It wasn’t the time. 

“Between the two of them, probably saved my life about seven times yesterday,” he said, as he sat down tiredly at the little table. “If they’re battin’ for both sides, then I think the bad guys’ve got more things to worry about than we do…” 

* * *

It was good enough for Steve, but Darcy still had to be sure, and so when Romanov tapped on their apartment door about ten minutes later, Darcy was the one to answer it, and before she let the woman in, she held out her hand and then looked her in the eye. 

Romanov didn’t ask— simply shook the hand, one eyebrow arched. 

“Thanks,” said Darcy, her shoulders relaxing as she dropped the other woman’s hand. “Nothing personal, I just…” 

She took the time to explain it then— the bond-gift, and what it seemed to indicate— as the two of them sat down at the little breakfast table. Romanov listened with interest, not interrupting, while Steve finishing up with the coffee, delivering it to the table one mug at a time. There weren’t any more chairs, so he just leaned against the counter, blowing gently on his own drink before hazarding a sip. 

“I’m sorry,” said Romanov, once Darcy was done with her story. “Coulson didn’t tell me you were his soulmate; all I was told was that Rogers had requested the information, and that it was top priority.” She was watching Darcy carefully. “The file— it must have been… upsetting.” 

“That’s putting it lightly,” said Darcy, “but I appreciate you getting it for us.” She looked down, a little unnerved by the woman’s scrutiny. 

It occurred to her then that Romanov might have had the wrong idea about her and Steve this whole time— that maybe that was what she’d been trying to figure out before, when their body language didn’t match up to her assumption. 

“You got any idea what happened in 1972?” asked Steve. “File made it sound like something significant happened— somethin’ to worry them, more than the other stuff.” 

“I don’t,” she said. “But I can look into it.” She blinked once. “I need to stay out of Russia for a while— especially now that all of our faces are being broadcast all over the world.” She looked down for a second and shook her head, like it was only just hitting her— the consequences of what she’d done: stepping up, in a very public way, to help fight off the aliens. Her eyes moved up to Steve. “You need to be careful too.” 

She took a sip of coffee and then finished what she had to say. “There are some things I can still do, remotely. Give me a few days.” 

Darcy looked up at Steve, and he nodded back to her, like it came as no surprise to him that the woman could promise results so quickly. It was more than Darcy had hoped for: a few days? She’d figured on months, if anything… 

“Thanks,” she said, not bothering to hide her surprise. “As much as I hate—” She’d been about to say, “SHIELD”, but stopped herself, aware that Romanov was one of their high-ranking agents. “I mean, with Coulson gone… we’re on our own now. We’ve still got May, but I’m not about to bother her right now with—” 

“May’s taking a leave of absence,” said Romanov. “I talked to her this morning.” 

Darcy nodded, fidgeting with the handle on the mug. “Is she—” 

“Not good,” said Romanov, and left it at that. 

“What about Barton,” said Darcy, her voice softer. “I guess they’re moving Eric— Dr. Selvig— to some psychiatric center upstate…” 

Romanov held her eyes for a moment, her face unreadable, and then she blinked and looked down, took a sip of coffee. “He’ll be okay.” 

“Are, um… are you and he…” Darcy didn’t know how to say it— it really wasn’t any of her business. 

Romanov’s eyes flicked up to hers and there was just the hint of a smile there, in the way she pressed her lips together. “He’s a friend,” she said. 

It was quiet for a few seconds, and then the moment was over: “Speaking of,” she said, and she stood up, pushed in her chair. “I should go up there, check in on him.” She held up the mug, still mostly full. “You mind if I take this?” 

“Be my guest,” said Steve, and then he spoke up again quickly, a little awkward. “You, uh… you guys wanna get some dinner later? There’s a great Indian place nearby; we, uh… we could see if they’d be willing to deliver…” 

“I could go pick it up,” said Darcy. “I’m still a nobody.” 

“Yeah, okay,” said Natasha, in that noncommittal way that actually meant, ‘_We’ll see when we get there_.’ 

Steve pushed off the counter and walked her to the door, like a gentleman. Once she was gone, he turned the bolt on the lock and put on the chain, and then he came back over to the table and took up the seat that Romanov had vacated. 

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, just sipping their coffees, and then Darcy spoke up, striking a deliberately bland tone: 

“So… she’s, uh… she’s pretty impressive…” 

“Knock it off,” said Steve, and when she glanced up at him, he was hiding a tiny grin behind his mug… 

* * *

Darcy ordered enough food to feed a squadron, and the lady at the restaurant was very helpful when she went to pick it up, fussing over her to make sure she could carry it all. 

She’d been right about nobody bothering her— she was still just Katie Palmer, as far as anyone in the neighborhood knew— but it hadn’t occurred to her that some of the people who’d known Steve as Declan Palmer would have, by now, put two-and-two together after seeing his face all over the television for twenty-four hours straight. 

The restaurant lady leaned in close and told Darcy, “You tell your brother we thank him for his service, all right?” 

When Darcy looked at her in shock, the woman had simply winked and stepped away, ready to help the next customer. 

* * *

“They’re totally onto you,” she said to Steve, as she dumped all the bags of food on Barton’s table. He had more room to sit at his place, so he’d invited them all up there to eat. 

“You mean at Babu’s?” said Barton, leaning forward to help pull containers out of bags. “Nah, they’re cool. They won’t say nothin’.” 

“Good to know,” said Darcy. “I think Steve here would die a little inside if we had to give this up…” Then she switched gears, looking a little sharply at Barton, whose demeanor was a strange mix of tension and ease. “How come we’ve never seen you around before? You been here this whole time?” 

“Nah,” said Barton. He accepted the stack of plates, both big and small, from Natasha, who moved about in the kitchen like it was her own. Barton started doling out the plates to the four of them like he was dealing playing cards. “Haven’t been here much this year. And when I have, I usually come in through the roof.” 

“The roof?” said Darcy. “Why would—” 

Just as she started to say it, there was a thunderous boom overhead, coming from just above Barton’s top-floor apartment; it sounded like someone had dropped an elephant on the building. 

“The roof,” repeated Barton, and both he and Natasha scrambled up and started jogging down the hallway to an access panel in the ceiling. “Ladder’s in the closet,” he said. 

“Let’s just use Rogers,” she said, looking back. 

“Stay here,” said Steve, who was close on their heels, when Darcy tried to follow. 

“Be careful,” she said, as she watched Steve give the other two a leg up, one at a time, their bodies disappearing up into the darkness above the ceiling. He followed them, simply jumping up to grab onto the edge of the open frame, and then used his super-human upper-body strength to pull himself up the rest of the way. 

Darcy paced back and forth in the hallway, thinking _what now_— wondering if maybe she should run down to their apartment and grab the stun-gun that Steve had given her— but less than five minutes later, she could hear a distant chuckling, and then the sound of their voices, and footsteps clomping along the ceiling, and then the three of them dropped, one by one, back down into the hallway, followed by the enormous body of Thor Odinson, his red cape billowing out as he dropped through the hole in the ceiling. 

“I apologize again for alarming you,” he said to the others, and then, even as he said, “Where is she,” he turned and saw Darcy there in the hallway— strode over to her, wasting no time. 

“I have word of your man.” 

“What?” she said, her heart picking up. “Already? What is it? Is he okay? Is—” 

“He is…” Thor hesitated a moment, but continued on quickly when he could see the distress on her face. “I will not say he is well— but he is alive.” He handed her something: he was returning the cardboard sleeve to her— the one with the photo inside. 

“Heimdall has seen him,” he continued, as she accepted the photo. “He is… in a state of confusion. In and out of sleep: a kind of restless dreaming. When he is awake, he knows not who he is, nor his purpose.” He let out a breath, shifting his weight, and Darcy was about to break in, to ask more questions, when he cut her off with the rest: 

“Heimdall has apologized, saying he has nothing more specific with which to guide your search at this time; the details of your man’s circumstances are… overwhelmed by the troubled agitation of his mind. Should any of that change, I shall of course make all haste to inform you.” 

She was trying to speak— to say anything: to thank him for his trouble, to ask follow-up questions, but she found herself speechless, unable to get the words out. She was frozen, locked on the few key words from his speech that were reverberating in her mind— _confusion_… _overwhelmed_— even as she struggled to focus on the most important thing: he was still alive. 

“All will be well,” he said softly, and he bent down to kiss her forehead, one big hand resting in her hair, but then he stepped away. “Forgive the abruptness of my departure, but I must return to Asgard immediately. The situation with my brother is…” He trailed off, glancing at Barton, whose face was like stone, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“There is hope for your man yet,” he said to Darcy, his voice assured. “Do not doubt it.” 

“I won’t,” she whispered. “Not ever.” 

* * *

_June, 2012_  
_Washington, D.C._

“Report,” said Sitwell, and then he added, “And speak up. I’m having trouble hearing you.” 

He was pacing inside his sleek new office at the Triskelion, relieved to finally be left alone. It’d been his first opportunity for a private conversation with Dr. Oberly in over a week, and he was antsy to get an update: something he could pass on to his superiors. 

He couldn’t see her— she was speaking to him on her personal phone— and there was some kind of terrible noise in the background, obscuring the clarity of her voice. 

Oberly had stepped outside to take the call— had one hand holding the phone to her ear, the finger of her other hand pressed against the opposite ear, trying to block out the sounds of the harsh, male screams coming from down the hall. Sitwell had called at an inconvenient time. 

“He’s just coming out of it now,” she said. “It’ll take me a while to see if there’s been any change. If there hasn’t been, I’m prepared to push the levels a bit more— see if that allows us to manipulate his recall more consistently.” 

“Okay,” said Sitwell. “Can you give me anything at all? Anything to get these people off my balls for a while?” 

“Of course,” said Oberly. The screaming had finally died down, and she dropped the finger from her ear. “Tell them… tell them that we are encouraged by the subject’s continuing assimilation… and that we see no physical reason to delay the procedure.” 

“Good,” said Sitwell, and she could hear him let out a breath. “Yeah. That’s good. All right. Keep me informed.” 

“Of course,” she said, and then pulled the phone away from her ear and clicked it off to end the call. She slipped the phone into her pocket and headed back to the recovery room, where a group of heavily-muscled men were dragging and then lifting the Soldier onto a gurney, the back of it raised at a forty-five-degree angle. 

His eyes were glassy and he didn’t resist as the men tightened the reinforced straps that secured him to the bed. His hair had grown a bit since her last visit, and he needed a shave. 

The head technician was standing by, supervising— ready to answer her questions. 

“He looks like shit,” she said, mildly. “Doesn’t anyone wash him?” 

“Of course, ma’am,” he said. “We, uh… he was more agitated than usual when we roused him this time, so we were forced to immediately sedate him as a precaution. He’ll, uh… he’ll get a full physical detailing later.” 

“Could you at least give him a quick shave? I can’t read his face when he’s all scruffy like that.” 

“Yes ma’am,” said the tech, and he snapped his fingers at someone, who scurried from the room to get the supplies. “How was your flight in?” he said, while they were waiting. They were ignoring the Soldier, who was silent— immobile—though his eyes were open. 

“The delays were ridiculous,” she said. “Security’s still heightened everywhere. Pain in the ass.” 

“It’s been a month,” said the tech, commiserating. “Should be getting better soon.” 

“It’s worse in New York,” she said. She looked around, found a rolling stool— slid it over to the Soldier’s bedside and sat down on it. “At least here it’s just a matter of long lines.” She made a derisive sound. “Don’t see the point, anyway. They think the aliens are gonna come back disguised as tourists? It’s a ridiculous waste of time and resources.” 

“Amazing, the stupidity that drives so many decisions,” agreed the tech. 

Oberly was peering at the Soldier’s expression now— he seemed to be dazed. Awake, certainly, but not necessarily aware. He was staring at the opposite wall, the rest of his face slack. 

“Here’s the stuff for the shave,” said a man, returning with a metal tray. It had shaving tools, a washcloth, and a basin with water on it. 

The tech gave him a dismissive look. “What’re you telling me for,” he said. “Do it.” 

“Me?” said the guy. 

“Why not you?” said the tech. “Look at him; he’s docile. You afraid or something?” 

“No,” said the man, clearly lying. 

“Okay, then,” said the tech. “Get to it.” He gave Oberly an amused look, which she returned. It was always a little entertaining to see the newbs pee their pants around the Soldier, even when he was strapped down and sedated. 

The Soldier didn’t move a muscle— just stared straight ahead as the man got to work. The assistant’s fingers were visibly shaking as he held the Soldier’s jaw steady, hesitating before he applied the blade. There was a rasping sound as he scraped against his skin with the razor, occasionally stopping to rinse the blade, or to wipe away the soap with the washcloth. 

The quiet _tap-tap-tap_ of the razor against the dish of water was soothing in a way, and Oberly found herself almost dozing off as she waited, her eyes drifting shut. She’d been up since four-thirty that morning, and she was tired. The head tech was quiet as well— silently reading something on his phone. 

It took the guy about twenty-five minutes to finish the job, and finally she heard him step back, setting the razor down on the metal tray. “All done,” he said. 

Oberly opened her eyes. The Soldier was still staring straight ahead, but his face was now fully visible to her. He looked like he was going to have a nasty razor burn. Lucky for him, the serum would take care of it quickly. 

“You can go,” she said to the man, and he retreated quickly, taking the shaving supplies with him. 

“You want me to stay?” said the tech. 

“Up to you,” she said, watching the Soldier’s face. She could tell he was listening to her now. He was very good at masking his emotions if he wanted to— if he had the will— which was why she’d needed to get rid of the beard. She relied on every micro-expression to do this right. 

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll step out,” said the tech. “Got half a turkey sandwich waiting for me in my office.” 

“Knock yourself out,” said Oberly. 

After he’d left, she pulled her phone back out of her pocket and switched it to _mute_. Set it down on the little table next to the gurney. Licked her lips. Waited another half-minute, listening to him breathe. 

“I know you’re listening,” she said finally. “Do you remember who I am?” 

He didn’t move his head, but she saw his eyes dart over, just for a second, before they went back to the wall. 

“Yes,” he said softly. “You— you’re my doctor.” 

“That’s right,” she said, sounding pleased. “Doctor Oberly. And do you remember your name?” 

He took a moment to answer. “I don’t need a name,” he said. 

“That’s right,” she said again, and then she waited. 

“But you can call me _John_ if you need to,” he added. 

“Thank you, John,” she said. “That’s very helpful. And do you remember what you do here?” 

There was a longer pause this time. “I’m a soldier,” he said. 

“That’s right. I’m glad you remember. You’re doing very well.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

She was watching him closely, monitoring his tone— looking for anything to suggest deception. So far, so good. 

“And do you remember where you got that name? The name ‘_John_’?” 

“It was… my last mission,” he said. That one was a little slower, like he wasn’t entirely sure. Part of him was still guessing. 

“What do you remember of your last mission,” she said, and then let out a short sigh. Sometimes it was tedious, running the same script over and over. But she hadn’t been lying to Sitwell: She _was_ encouraged by his progress; he _was_ assimilating. 

The first few weeks had been… rough. He’d been defiant: violent, like an animal… utterly heartbroken and full of rage, in the moments when he was lucid enough to remember the girl. 

The new drugs were helping. They threw off his ability to reason, to trust the memories that the serum kept trying to repair. They were trying to get the balance right: enough to mold him— make him compliant— without muddying his reflexes, his physical acuity. 

He hadn’t answered the question. She was watching his brow, his lips. He was thinking hard about something. Trying to work it out. It was happening less often now, but it was still frustrating, how well the man was able to latch onto even the faintest thread of memory, and embroider it into questions that he shouldn’t have been able to formulate. 

“What do you remember of your last mission,” she repeated. “Are you thinking about it now?” 

“I remember the girl,” he said. “Darcy.” He furrowed his brow. “What happened to her?” 

She sighed, as though disappointed. “We’ve talked about this,” she said. “About the girl. How you invented her, to cope with—” She paused, deliberately, like she was trying to choose a tactful word. “With your malfunction.” 

“What happened?” he said. “Don’t remember what—” He blinked a few times. “I remember shooting someone. I remember the girl. Darcy. Had to— needed to keep her safe…” 

“You shot a lot of people,” she said gently. “You know this, John.” She waited a beat to give it the weight she wanted. “You killed your entire team.” 

He blinked again. 

“The girl was never there,” she said. “Your mind invented her, in order to justify…” She shifted in the seat, leaned forward a little. “When you first came to, after we extracted you… the girl— the fabrication— it was the only thing you remembered, or thought you remembered. The only thing you _wanted_ to remember. It was a safety net your brain created to protect you while you healed. It’s been a lot of work to peel that away, to let that go. As much as I’m aware—” 

She shifted again, making it seem as though what she was saying was uncomfortable. “I know it’s hard to revisit the pain of the real memories, and maybe it sounds odd to say, but the fact that you remember one of the shootings is real progress, John. I’m proud of you.” 

She was still watching him closely. There were tears gathering in his eyes, and she sighed again. The man was far too emotional when he ceased his stubborn, subconscious resistance. 

It was a real pity that they couldn’t have brought the girl with them. She’d planned to have him kill her, symbolically “destroying” the false memory, thereby completing the process. Now she had to do it all abstractly, which was tiresome— and likely not as effective, though she needed to keep that opinion to herself. 

They’d devoted a lot of resources to the attempt to find her, but Coulson, the shit, had done an admirable job of covering her trail. When Captain America had popped up out of nowhere to fight off the alien invasion, there’d been hope that he’d lead them to her— that he had some contact with her, as they both had an interest in finding Barnes— and they hadn’t been disappointed: she’d shown up with him the next day, at Central Park; it seemed someone had brought her there to speak with Thor. 

They’d had three separate cars try to follow Rogers’ group as they’d left the park that day, but the Black Widow had shaken them like child’s play. Lewis had likely been shuttled out of the city within the hour, on a plane to who-knows-where… 

There’d been hope that Rogers would turn up again, maybe to see Carter— they’d finally managed to place a man at the nursing home— but Rogers hadn’t visited her since the events in New York. The man was all over the news now, his face on every tabloid newspaper and magazine. If he’d been lying low before, he’d no doubt found an even deeper hole to squirrel away in, at least until the fervor died down. 

It really was a shame about the girl: Oberly would have enjoyed watching the Soldier kill her. 

She could still remember the relief it’d been, getting the order to kill her own soulmate. The emotions had been a distraction. Had made her weak. It’d been embarrassing, how that pathetic part of her still resisted just a little while the others watched— had fought against it, until she’d overcome the weakness, allowing her finger to fully depress the trigger. 

She could remember it clearly: her man making a fool of them both— pleading for his life— up until the moment the bullet cracked through his forehead and turned his brain into pudding, and she’d felt it: felt the moment she was released, and it’d been better than any orgasm… 

She wished she could give Barnes the same relief. 

A tear was rolling down his face now. “Seemed real,” he said, and then he licked his lips and whispered it, almost breaking down: “I can remember the taste of her skin…” 

“Well,” said Oberly, fidgeting, looking at her hands— doing a good job of acting just slightly embarrassed by his candid confession. “You’re doing much better now. So much better, in fact, that we feel you’re strong enough to go ahead with your surgery. We’ve scheduled it for one week from today.” 

“Surgery?” he said. 

She saw his right arm tense against the restraint— he’d instinctively tried to lift his hand, probably wanting to wipe his face. She leaned over to grab a tissue from the box on the little table, and she dried his tears for him, as gently as any concerned mother. 

“Your new arm,” she said, and then she smiled. “We’re all very excited for you. We believe in redemption, you know. You can leave your mistakes in the past. Move forward. Do your part, for the good of the organization.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. Quiet. Almost another whisper. “I’m sorry, ma’am. For—” 

“It’s okay, John,” she said. “We’re going to keep working on this together. I’m very proud of you. The entire team is.” 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said again. 

“Don’t mention it,” she said. “Now. I bet you’re feeling pretty hungry, after that long nap…” 

* * *

_March, 2013_  
_Hydra Training Camp_  
_Location: undisclosed_

“He’s incredible,” said Sitwell, breathing it out— watching from a safe distance, as the Winter Soldier punched and pummeled his way through no fewer than twenty agents who’d been tasked in attempting to stop him. The man’s reflexes were like a machine, but he had those assassin’s instincts, allowing him to anticipate and react in a way that no automaton could have. 

There’d been no more talk of Darcy Lewis, not for over six months now: he’d fully assimilated the story of her having been a construct, and knew to ignore the false memories when they came up. They still had to completely wipe him before and after each rest period, and the new drugs were imperative, but they’d found the right balance. 

Oberly had kept it to herself— how rapidly his memories reformed themselves each time, compared to what the notes from his past captivity suggested… possibly an effect of some bond-gift from the girl. But the drugs and the frequent wipes were keeping it under control: without any triggers of his past around him, a single wipe would keep the memories away for a couple days, at least. 

The true test, of course, would come when they eventually sent him to take down Rogers, which was an inevitability. It was one thing to look at a photograph of a man… another entirely to interact with the real thing. To hear his voice, feeding him details that only Barnes would know. 

Sitwell still had concerns— Oberly knew that. Rogers was their biggest worry for the coming storm, and if the Soldier could handle him, it would be a huge burden lifted from his list of anxieties. Sitwell liked guarantees. Perhaps this little demonstration today would help ease his mind. 

Oberly, for her part, wasn’t worried. She had faith in her creation. He was obedient, and one of the emotions they were unable to rid him of— his passion— had been gradually twisted and bent into a fierce desire to please his handlers: to do the job asked of him, and do it well. 

“You’re not recording this, are you?” said Sitwell, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. 

Oberly couldn’t help laughing at the question. Normally, when someone asked that, they were concerned. This was something else. “Why,” she said. “You hoping to spend some… personal time with the footage?” 

It took him a second to get her meaning, and he glanced over and gave her an irritated look. 

“No judgement,” she said, still joking. “I mean, I get it.” 

The arm they’d given him was a thing of beauty: an incredible piece of machinery, especially when seen in action, like this— one second blocking a live round from a pistol, the next disarming and then smacking a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man to the ground as though he were a child. Sitwell could barely follow the action, with all that was going on, and the speed with which it transpired. 

The Soldier had taken a few bullets, unable to deflect them all— one in his flesh arm, and a couple in his legs— but it hadn’t even slowed him down; if anything, the wounds had just pissed him off and made his own continuous onslaught more viciously focused. 

“What if they accidentally get him in the head?” said Sitwell, who was flinching with every shot fired. 

“Then I guess we’d find out just how well that serum works,” she said. 

He looked at her like she was completely nuts, and she almost rolled her eyes. “Stop your fretting,” she said. “It’s embarrassing.” 

They both returned their attention to Barnes, who was bearing down on the last-standing agents, a pair of otherwise-tough-looking men who were now backing away in fear, having emptied their pistols of all their ammunition, left with nothing but their fists and their wits to fend off the Soldier. 

The rest of the agents were moaning on the floor, bleeding and broken. He’d been ordered not to kill any of them, but some of them were going to be in medical for a good long while… 

“It’s quite… beautiful,” she said, and for a moment, she meant it. Was genuinely moved by what she’d helped to make. He was the achievement of her life; no doubt about it. 

“He’s ready,” said Sitwell, seeing the truth of it. 

“Yes,” said Oberly, with something like parental pride. “He is.” 

"I'll let them know," said Sitwell, and Oberly breathed out carefully, not wanting Sitwell to see how pleased she was. How eager she was, to see her protégé put into real service. She knew it wouldn't happen right away— that Project Insight wasn't ready to roll out yet— but the usage of the Soldier had never been a certainty. Now, with Sitwell's clear approval, it looked like there was every reason to hope she would finally get to see him in action... 

It was nearly another full year before she got the call… 

* * *

_January 9, 2014_  
_Washington, D.C._  
_Private Residence_

Oberly had just finished her morning coffee and was checking her messages when she saw the incoming call from Sitwell. She wasn’t expecting to hear from him; he’d stopped by the vault just the day before, delivering some sensitive materials and letting her know that he was being sent to the _Lemurian Star_. 

She tapped the green circle to accept the call. 

“Back already?” she said. 

Sitwell ignored her, getting right to the point. “Pierce called it,” he said, a little breathless. “The order was issued an hour ago to activate all available personnel in the greater D.C. area. Fury’s first, and then Rogers.” 

“Location on Rogers,” said Oberly, all business, sitting up straighter in her chair. “Will the asset be needing transport to—” 

“Rogers is here in town,” said Sitwell. “I came back with him on the jet; that little Boy Scout told me all about his plans to see his _girl_”— Sitwell said it derisively— “How he got interrupted by our little hostage situation— which, by the way, had the stink of Fury all over it. It’s gotta be why Pierce called it. I bet Romanov— I think Fury found out something.” 

“So where is he?” said Oberly, impatient. She didn’t need to hear the whole story. “Where’s Rogers— do we have someone following him?” 

“He’s visiting Carter today. Our man at the home confirmed it.” 

“We gonna take him out there?” she asked. 

“No— we need to take down Fury while Rogers is occupied. Once he’s out of the picture, you’re cleared to send the asset after Rogers. I’ve got the orders for Fury, and several possible locations for Rogers… I’m sending the information to you now. Our men on the ground will update you once he leaves the home.” 

She heard the chime as her phone received a secure file, and her body was already buzzing from the thrill of it: It was finally happening. 

“It’s time,” Sitwell breathed, as though he could read her thoughts— agreeing with them— and she could hear the excitement in his voice, almost matching her own, when he said it: 

“Send him.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	23. Chapter 23

_Two days earlier_…  
_Tuesday, January 7, 2014_  
_Brooklyn _

__

“I’ll be fine,” she said, meaning it. “Really. I probably won’t even leave the apartment.” 

Steve was shoving a few changes of clothes into his duffel bag while Darcy watched, standing in the doorway to his bedroom. He finished packing, and zipped up the bag. “If you do,” he said, “Promise me you’ll take your stun-gun.” 

“I will,” she said. “I promise.” 

“All right,” he said. 

She could tell he was still feeling hesitant about leaving her there alone, which was silly: he’d been away for longer stretches on any number of the assignments he’d done privately for Fury, or more publicly, as a member of the Avengers, during the almost two years since the Battle of New York. 

It’d become difficult, balancing the two lives— his work as Captain America, and his secret life as Declan Palmer, reclusive resident of Brooklyn, New York— but he was determined to make it work: to be there for Darcy, and to keep following any leads, no matter how small, in the search for Bucky. Not that there’d been any real leads. Even Thor had been silent— nothing further from Heimdall, in all that time, other than the assurance that the man they knew as James Barnes was still alive somewhere. 

Darcy missed Steve when he was away, but she could also see that it was good for him. To get out, see other people. To work. The only thing different about this trip was that it was elective— purely personal— and that made it hard for him to justify it, at least in his own mind. 

But it’d been over six months since he’d seen Peggy, and it was time. The last visit— an impromptu stop after a meeting with Fury in D.C.— had been a rough one. She hadn’t really remembered him at all, and Darcy knew that was part of why he was reluctant to go again. 

He’d also gotten more paranoid: he’d been convinced, after the last visit, that he’d been tailed after leaving the home, and had had to pull some tricky evasive maneuvers— learned from Natasha— to feel convinced that he’d shaken them. 

In spite of all these misgivings, they both knew he’d regret it if he didn’t go. Even if it was a risk. Even if it hurt. With the progression of her disease, she likely didn’t have much time left… 

“You’re gonna miss your train,” she said, and he finally looked up then, and gave her a half smile, before he lifted the duffel bag. She moved out of the doorway so he could leave the bedroom, and she followed him to the front door, where he dropped the bag long enough to put on his jacket and his cap. He grabbed his keys off the hook and shoved them in his pocket, and then he finally turned to her, and pulled her into a quick hug. 

“Be safe,” he said, into her hair. 

“You too,” she said. “Call me if you need me.” 

“I will,” he said, pulling back. He picked up his bag again, and with a final nod to her, went out the door. 

* * *

It was late morning the next day when he called, and she was just dinking around on the computer, still in her pajamas. She scrambled to flip over her phone and answer it— worried that he’d had another rough visit, needed her emotional support. 

“You okay?” she asked, as soon as she picked up. “You see her already?” 

“No,” he said. “I, uh… I’m being called away on an op. I’m with Nat, en route to the jet right now. Don’t know how long I’ll be, but I wanted to let you know, in case—” 

“Shit,” she said. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll see her as soon as I get back.” 

“Okay,” she said. “Be safe. And say ‘hi’ to Nat for me.” 

“Will do,” he said. “Talk to you soon.” 

It was always a little rough, when he got called away out of the blue, like this— no time to mentally prepare for it, no idea if he’d be coming back. He’d become her closest friend, other than Jane, whom she hadn’t even seen in person since before moving to New York: it’d been too risky for both of them, knowing that Hydra could be watching. 

Darcy knew she couldn’t go on living like this forever— as Katie Palmer, hiding out in an apartment in Brooklyn— but she was going to do it for as long as she could possibly stand it. Until she either found John, or had a good reason to stop looking. 

Maybe other people would judge her for hanging onto hope after so much time, without a single useful lead— with Coulson gone, and May apparently in some kind of permanent deep cover. But Steve was right there with her— never giving up hope— and as for Jane… she probably understood better than anyone. 

Jane: who often had to wait for months with no word from Thor. No idea what he was doing— where he was in the Universe, or if he was even still alive. Jane had never suggested to Darcy that she ‘move on’ or ‘face facts.’ If she brought it up at all, she only asked if there was any new information. 

There never was— at least there hadn’t been for a long time; not since Natasha had come through for them, following up on the Russian file. It’d taken her longer than the few days she’d promised, way back when, but she did it: only a couple months after the Chitauri invasion, she’d managed to find out about 1972. 

Through her vast network of underground contacts, she’d unearthed a brief reference, in some decades-old correspondence, to a ‘critical asset’ having gone missing after a failed mission in the United States. Of his team locating him, in a homeless encampment in Brooklyn. Of dragging him back to the Soviet Union, at great risk and expense. 

Natasha was convinced it’d been him. Anyone else, she’d said, they would have simply shot or slit his throat, dumped him in the river. Only someone as unique— as valuable as a super-soldier— would warrant such trouble. 

Apparently, though, the damage had been done: something had gone wrong; he’d either broken his conditioning or at least gotten confused enough to ignore his orders. To make his own decisions, at least enough to break away… to attempt to connect with his past. He’d become unpredictable, unreliable. It was the missing piece of the file: the most likely reason the decision had been made to decommission him indefinitely. 

Though it gave them nothing to work on in the present, Natasha had nevertheless seen it as a promising bit of information: if, even back then, he’d been able to break conditioning to that level, then there was every chance he could do so again. That he could be actively resisting, even now. 

“But it wasn’t like that after Coulson found him,” said Darcy. “I mean, he still had his super-strength and stuff, but it wasn’t working on his head. It wasn’t like they implied in the file, where the effects of the wipes were temporary. Whatever they did before they stored him away… it was like they permanently scrambled his brain, or something. I mean, at least until I said his words.” 

“The soulbond must have triggered some kind of regenerative effect, independent of the serum,” Natasha had said, theorizing. “Like a re-boot.” 

“But what if he has to be near me, for it to happen?” she’d said. “I mean, does it even work like that?” 

“No way to know,” Natasha had said. “Could be. Some gifts work like that; some don’t. You know that.” 

Natasha had never spoken of her own soulmark: whether it’d ever been triggered— whether she even had one— and neither Darcy nor Steve had ever felt invited to ask. 

The three of them had become closer over the last year, Steve frequently teaming up with Natasha on jobs. At the end of an op, she’d sometimes accompany Steve back to Brooklyn— always keen to check in on Barton, if he was around. 

Barton had gone through a series of ups and downs in his rehabilitation, and was frequently away on missions himself, though he preferred to work alone. At other times he stayed holed up in his apartment for weeks, avoiding contact with anyone. Natasha had convinced him to give Steve and Darcy a key, as long as they promised not to mother-hen him, which they mostly abided, though they did lure him down to their place for pizza from time-to-time. 

He was away on some solo op at the moment, and with Steve gone as well, Darcy found herself feeling more lonely than usual. She almost considered taking the train into the city… go to a museum, get some overpriced coffee… people-watch. As much as Steve worried about her going out, she needed to air herself out now and then as well, or go insane. The more time went by, the less likely it seemed anyone was about to jump out of the bushes and grab her… 

She changed her mind in the end, mostly because she didn’t feel like putting on real clothes. She stayed in her pajamas, read most of a book, and ate reheated leftovers in front of the computer for dinner. When she found herself yawning, her eyes watering from staring at the screen for too long, she leaned forward and shut it down, stood up from the chair, and then, as she did every night, she kissed the pads of her index and middle fingers and then touched them to the printed-out photo of John that was taped on the wall to the left of the monitor. 

It was a formal photo of him in his Sergeant’s uniform, and even though the caption said, “Sgt. James B. Barnes,” she still just thought of him as John. Her John. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” she said. 

* * *

_Thursday, January 9_

It was mid-afternoon, the next day, and she was at the bodega, in line to buy a candy bar, some Cheetos, and a big can of beer, when she saw the breaking news on the crappy TV behind the register. Reports were coming in of possible terrorist activity in Washington, D.C. 

The shaky footage was showing some kind of explosion, right in the middle of a busy downtown street. She heard the words “SHIELD,” and “Director Nicholas Fury,” and she dumped all her items, almost tripping over her own feet as she scrambled out of the store and hurried back to the apartment. 

She pulled out her phone on the way, and clicked the entry for Steve, holding the phone up to her ear. It went straight to voice mail. 

He’d texted her very early that morning— before dawn— just to let her know that he’d finished the op. Told her he was all right: completely exhausted, but still planning to visit Peggy. He was probably still there— at the nursing home, with his phone on mute— or passed out at his hotel. 

She made it back to the apartment, locked the door, dumped her keys. Hurried over to the computer and pulled up all the news feeds. She took out her phone and tried to reach Steve again, but there was still no answer. She left a message this time, telling him to call her as soon as he could. 

What if he was mixed up in this somehow? The reports were saying the vehicle was confirmed to belong to Fury, but there was no sign of the man, or the masked assailant who’d attacked him. The networks were urging anyone who’d gotten any photos or videos of the incident to send it to the station, having been cleared by the authorities to air it, in the hopes that someone watching would have information about the attack. 

After about thirty minutes, one of the networks began to run a six-second clip of amateur footage— most of it shaky and useless, but right at the end, for just a moment, a man could be seen in the distance, his back to the camera, strutting slowly toward the smoking, flipped-over SUV. The station was running it over and over, and someone there had zoomed in and enhanced parts of it, which were being run side-by-side with the full clip. 

The attacker was dressed head-to-toe in black. Long sleeves, heavy boots. Loose, shoulder-length, dark brown hair. He was carrying a nasty-looking assault rifle in his right hand. He held it casually, as though it weighed nothing. 

He could be anyone, but something about his gait… his shoulders… 

Her stomach soured and she opened YouTube and Reddit, looking for more footage. 

There was nothing on YouTube, but Reddit already had a half-dozen threads devoted to the incident, with one of them entitled, “_DC Attacker— CYBORG?_” She clicked on that one, and she could already feel anxious tremors in her chest as she began to scan the conversation. 

There were photos uploaded— zoomed in, probably stills from the same footage she’d already seen. The quality was terrible, and people were already beginning to dispute its authenticity, but the contributor had drawn a red circle around the man’s left hand. He had black fingerless gloves on, and the exposed fingertips appeared to be something other than flesh. More like… metal. 

Her heart was pounding; she could feel herself panicking even though this was hardly proof. But something in her gut just knew. She _knew_. 

It was him. It was John. It was Bucky. 

It was John, and they’d sent him after Fury. Maybe killed him. 

What if they’d already sent him after Steve, as well? What if that was why he hadn’t picked up? 

She tried to reach Steve again: still no answer, and this time she left another message, this one with an edge of panic she couldn’t hide, telling him to look at the news. 

There was live coverage from a chopper now, high overhead, and it was just a view of the destroyed, flipped-over SUV, and about a zillion police and emergency vehicles, with flashing red lights. The crime scene spanned several long city blocks, with other smashed vehicles and wreckage along the way. 

She had an almost primal urge to grab her backpack and go: to run to the subway— go to Penn Station and get on a train to D.C. To _find_ him. 

He’d been _right there_. After all this time, and he was only three hours away… 

She knew it would be foolish. He could be anywhere by now. Out of the city already. And even if she could find him, what was she supposed to do on her own? He hadn’t even known her in the machine room, back at the base, less than an hour under their spell— would have shot her, on command. Why would he know her now, after two years of their influence? 

The only plan they’d ever come up with, should he reappear like this, still under enemy control, was to capture him somehow— to keep him contained, and then wait, in the hopes that keeping him from their memory wipes, or whatever they were doing, would give his mind a chance to catch up— to heal. Time to recognize her, and let the bond take over, if proximity to her didn’t do the trick on its own. She couldn’t do any of that without Steve, or someone else with more power than she had. 

Failing that, Natasha had acquired some tiny trackers that could be attached to him— stuck to a boot or a belt or some other inconspicuous place, if they could get close enough— in the hopes that they’d go undetected just long enough to find out where they were keeping him. To have some kind of trail to follow. Both Steve and Natasha carried some at all times, everywhere they went, as did Darcy, just in case. 

She opened her contacts again, her thumb shaking as it hovered over the listing for Agent May. She hadn’t tried to contact the woman for two years— had left her alone to her grief, as she’d seemed to want. 

But this was an emergency, and there was nobody else she could safely contact, who knew about John. 

She clicked on the entry and held the phone up to her ear, waiting. There was no voice-mail— it just rang and rang, and Darcy was about to hang up when suddenly there was a click and she heard May’s stern voice say, “Who is this.” 

“It’s Darcy,” she said, her voice rushed. “Darcy Lewis. Have you seen what—” 

“You shouldn’t be calling me,” said May, her voice low now, wherever she was. “Are you safe?” 

“Yeah, I’m safe,” she said, “but I can’t reach Steve. He’s in D.C. right now; I don’t know what—” 

“I’m in the air,” said May. “I can’t— did something happen? Why are you calling me?” 

“You don’t know,” she said, realizing. “It’s _him_. It’s John. I’m sure of it; he—” 

“Slow down,” said May. “Tell me what happened.” 

“They sent him after Fury. Right in the middle of downtown D.C.” 

“What?” said May, sounding sharp, and then there was a shuffling in the background. “Fury— is he dead?” she said, her voice very steady. 

“Nobody knows,” said Darcy. “Nobody knows anything; there’s just a wrecked car, and—” 

“Are you certain,” said May, her voice even. “Are you one-hundred-percent sure that it’s him.” 

Darcy hesitated. She knew it— knew in her heart that it was him, but she also knew that there was no way to prove it. “I can’t prove it, but yes,” she said, trying to be honest. “I don’t know— maybe it’s a soulmate, thing, or—” She blew out a breath. “It’s him.” 

“Okay,” said May, and Darcy sagged a little, relieved that she believed her— that she was taking it seriously. 

“I can’t— I need to do this a certain way,” said May, “and I have to take some precautions of my own, but in the meantime, I’m gonna have you call someone— someone in Washington. He’s in a better position to steer you through this. I can’t— I’m not in a place where I can help you, or I would…” 

“I know,” she said. “And I’m— God, I’m so sorry I never… about Coulson, I—” 

“Can’t talk about that right now,” said May, cutting her off. “You have something to write on?” 

“Yeah,” said Darcy, scrambling in the desk drawer for a stack of yellow Post-its and a pen. 

“Okay,” said May. “The man you need to call: his name is Jasper Sitwell. You got that?” She spelled the name out while Darcy wrote it down. “He’s a high-ranking Agent, and he was there at the beginning: there with Phil when Barnes— when _John_— was first unfrozen. Talk to him. He’ll know what to do. I need to see if I can find out what happened to Fury…” 

She dictated the number to call, and then warned her: “Be careful, Darcy. You don’t know what… I mean, he may not know you. At all.” 

“I know,” she said. “I know. But I have to try. I can’t just sit here. This is the first—” 

“I gotta go,” said May, abruptly. “We’ll talk again. Good luck.” 

There was a beeping as the connection abruptly ended, and Darcy put the phone down. Opened up a browser and typed in ‘Jasper Sitwell.’ She looked at the photos that came up. 

He was a tidy-looking man, with good skin, the color of bronzed beechwood. He had a clean-shaven head and expensive-looking eyeglasses. There were pictures of him shaking senators’ hands. He seemed like a man who could get things done. 

May trusted this man. He was probably safe to call. Nevertheless, Darcy followed the protocol she and Steve had established for calls to anyone unconfirmed, and went to the hall closet, dug out one of the fresh burner phones. Powered it on, and dialed the number May had given her. Someone picked up after just a couple of rings. 

“Sitwell,” said a man’s voice, on the other end of the line. It was all business, and sounded a bit harried. “Who is this?” 

“Um— my name is Darcy Lewis,” she began. “Agent Melinda May told me to call you; I—” 

“Darcy Lewis?” he said, and she had the feeling that whatever he’d been doing while talking to her, he’d stopped. Was now giving her his full attention. His voice lowered. “I was a friend of Phil’s,” he said. “I know about Barnes. You see that footage?” 

“Yeah,” she said, something in her releasing, at the relief of talking to someone else who _knew_. “You think it’s him?” 

“I do,” said the man. “You in a safe place?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m— I’m where I’ve always been, since they took him. But I don’t want to be here; I want—” 

“Tell me where you are,” he said. “I can have someone there within the hour. Bring you to a safe place, while we figure out if there’s a way to track Barnes. Figure out where he came from.” 

“Okay,” she said, and she got a fresh surge of adrenaline: something was finally happening. They were going to _find_ him. Save him. She gave Sitwell the address, and he told her to pack a small bag and wait. 

She hung up, her heart pounding, and for a second she couldn’t move at all. Then she scrambled up and went to her bedroom. Went to her closet and grabbed the go-bag she already had packed for emergencies. Thought about what else to bring. She went to her regular day-pack and got the cardboard sleeve with the picture of John out of it, and moved it to the other bag. Got her little zippered pouch with her fake IDs and the rest of her cash. Her phone. The other phone—the burner she’d used to call Sitwell. 

She checked her stun-gun to see if it had a full charge: it did. 

She tried reaching Steve again: still nothing, and no messages. She went back to the computer and got some paper out of the desk drawer, wrote out a note so that he would know what happened, in case he came back to the apartment before talking to her. Maybe something had happened to his phone. Maybe he’d left D.C. and was already en route to New York. 

She was still for a moment, feeling almost numb. She looked at the wall behind the computer: at all the pictures of John there, and she went over and carefully untaped the one of him in his uniform, the one she said good-night to every night. She folded the still-sticky tape to the back and then slipped it into the cardboard sleeve in her bag, safe there with the other picture of him. 

It’d been just over forty minutes when the intercom buzzed, indicating that someone was down at the inner door by the mailboxes, wanting to get in. It was a little scary, how quickly they’d gotten there. She went over to the intercom and pressed the button. 

“Hello?” she said, keeping her voice low. 

It was a woman. “Jasper sent me,” she said. 

“Okay,” said Darcy. “Should I come down, or—” 

“No,” said the woman. “Buzz me up first. I want a private place to call him back— let him know you’re all right. And, uh… use the bathroom, if that’s okay.” 

“Of course,” she said, chuckling a little, as she released the talk button. She pressed the button to release the lock on the security door, down below, almost smiling, because it was funny how even a super-spy sent on a mission still had to pee from time to time. It was such a dumb, human thing to happen— something that would never happen in a movie— that it made her relax a little. 

Still, she wasn’t completely stupid. She went back to her go-bag and got out the stun-gun and held it ready in her right hand while she waited at the door, peering through the peep-hole. 

After another minute of waiting, she could hear someone coming up the stairs down the hall, and then a single woman appeared, the view of her distorted through the peep-hole as she approached the apartment door. She looked like a typical thirty-something New Yorker dressed for winter: dark pants, boots, black puffer jacket. Black gloves. She had short blonde hair and tiny little silver stud earrings. A blue woolen scarf that picked up the blue of her eyes. Nothing about her screamed _super-spy_. 

She didn’t bother knocking— probably knew Darcy was watching through the peep-hole. Darcy released the bolt but left the chain on, and cracked the door. The woman looked at her face through the crack, and then down at the stun-gun that Darcy still held in her hand. 

“Can I um… you have some ID or something?” said Darcy. 

“Sure,” said the woman. “Smart.” She went into the inside pocket of her puffer coat. Pulled out a large ID inside a plastic sleeve. It looked just like the ones Coulson and May had carried. The woman passed it through the crack so that Darcy could take a closer look at it. The picture matched her appearance and it identified her as Allison Merks, Agent of SHIELD. 

“Okay,” said Darcy, and she closed the door to take the chain off, and then let the woman in, and returned her ID. 

“Thanks,” said the woman, and she held out her gloved hand. “I’m Allison.” 

“Darcy,” she said, and she switched the stun-gun over to her left, so that she could shake the woman’s gloved hand with her right. “Um, let me show you where the bathroom is…” 

The woman was taking her leather gloves off, stuffing them into the pockets of her puffer coat, as Darcy led her down the short hall and showed her, and then returned to the main room while the woman shut the door and used the bathroom. Darcy could hear the toilet flush a minute later, and then the sound of water running as she used the sink. 

The bathroom door opened and she came back out, looking around the small apartment. Her eyes lingered on the pictures around the computer for just a second, but then she steadied her attention on Darcy again. 

“You all set?” she said. 

“Think so,” said Darcy. She was pulling on her jacket, trying to remember where she’d left her mittens and hat. “Where are we going, anyway?” 

“Probably best if I don’t say,” said the woman. “I can tell you more once we’re en route.” 

“Okay,” said Darcy. “Lemme just—” 

She was going to put the stun-gun in her bag, but she fumbled it, dropping the bag on the floor, and the woman bent down to pick the bag up for her. “Here you go,” she said. 

“Thanks,” said Darcy, and when she took it from her, the bare skin of their hands brushed together, and… 

The sick pull of nausea was almost instantaneous, and immediately recognizable: it was the same, world-tilting sickness she’d gotten from the men— the bad men, back at the base. It’d been so long since she’d felt it, she’d almost forgotten how intense it was… 

“You okay?” said the woman, as Darcy bent over and stumbled backwards, looking at the woman in shock. She scrambled for the stun-gun and flipped it on, aiming it at the woman like a ward, the sick-sounding buzz of it like the warning that Darcy couldn’t vocalize: _stay back_. 

The woman’s eyes darted to it, her eyes narrowing, realizing that somehow, Darcy was onto her, and then all at once it was a flurry of motion, the woman fumbling at her puffer-jacket, probably going for a weapon, and before she could think about what she was doing, Darcy surged forward with the stun-gun, jabbing it at the only open skin she could reach: the woman’s face. 

She got her in the cheek, held it there, pressing into the woman’s flesh for a solid three seconds, the stun-gun making its skittering crackling sound as the woman flinched and shrieked, falling and rolling on the ground, her arms going slack, and when she seemed incapacitated— still conscious, but moaning— Darcy bolted, grabbing her go-bag as she went, and then she was out the door and running down the hall to the stairwell, her heart pounding out of her chest… 

She was running up the stairs to the top floor, knowing there could be more of them waiting for her down below, outside, or maybe even inside the building, by the mailboxes. She was fumbling in her bag for her keys as she took the steps two at a time… she couldn’t hear the woman behind her, yet— hopefully she was still down… 

She was panting, having sprinted up three flights of stairs, the key to Barton’s apartment ready now, and ran the rest of the way down the hall to his door. She unlocked it quickly, trying to be quiet even as she was moving frantically, feeling like the Devil was licking at her heels, and then she was inside, and she shut and bolted the door and backed away, quietly, trying to get her breathing under control, trying— now that she was safe, for the moment— to make sense of what had just happened. 

Barton’s apartment was silent, empty of life, Darcy the only thing moving inside, and she mentally steadied herself, still trying to bring her breathing down. She continued to back away from the entryway, trying to keep her ears open for the sound of anyone coming up the stairs or down the hallway outside… 

She stepped softly, trying not to make a sound, making it all the way over to the bathroom, shutting the door as quietly as she could. Locked it. Got into the empty bathtub and sat down in it, getting low. It was instinctive: for some reason, she felt safer in the tub… She was shaking badly now, the adrenaline pumping through her like poison. She was realizing that she’d probably just saved her own life. 

No: _John_ had. With his bond-gift. Without that tip-off— the nausea— she would have trusted that woman. Would have left with her, gotten in a vehicle with her. Would have followed her instructions, like a idiot. Anything could have happened. Maybe they would have used her against John, somehow. Maybe they simply would have killed her, to keep her from influencing him. 

_God— so stupid_. She was berating herself now, going over it: that stupid I.D.— for fuck’s sake, even Mark had had one of those… 

Why hadn’t she insisted on shaking the woman’s hand, before she’d even come into the apartment? She’d been so careful in the past… It’d been the excitement over finally getting somewhere… finally feeling like there might be a chance… it’d made her sloppy, foolish… 

_Fuck_. Did this mean that May was dirty too? Jasper Sitwell certainly was, at the very least… and now they knew where she and Steve had been living… 

They could never come back here… 

She thought of all the pictures on the wall… all the data on the computer, evidence of two years of searching, and she cursed herself a fool. There was nothing she could do about it now. 

She had to get out. They were probably watching the front, would know she hadn’t left the building. Might bring in more, do a full sweep, one apartment at a time, disguised as law enforcement… 

She realized they could be tracking her somehow, with some super-duper spy shit, to the burner-phone she’d used, and she unzipped her bag and pulled it out. She couldn’t instantly crush it like Steve, but she used the grip of the stun-gun to bash at it on the floor of the tub, making way too much noise, until the guts came out and she could rip out the electronics inside. She got out of the tub and dumped the mangled parts into the toilet, watching as they submerged in the water, hoping that would be enough. 

She slid the mute button on her other phone— the clean one— not wanting it to make any noise, in case Steve or May tried calling back. 

She wanted to trust May. She might not have known about Sitwell… He was some super high-level guy; it was probably crazy that he was dirty— that it went that high up into the organization… 

She checked the time: it was almost five o’clock. It would be getting dark soon. She got back into the tub. 

She opened up her news app, scrolled through the latest reports out of D.C.— apparently a half-dozen cars involved in the high-speed chase, trying to run down Fury, had been disguised as city cops. She couldn’t— shouldn’t— consider calling the police. Shouldn’t trust anyone. Just like Steve had said, years ago, when he’d called her from the helicarrier… 

She could trust Steve, and herself. She’d trust Barton, if he were here. Natasha. She trusted Jane, of course, but would never endanger her friend by calling— they could be watching her, waiting for Darcy to attempt communication. She and Jane only corresponded through Thor now— the only way to be sure she wasn’t endangering her friend. Darcy sometimes wondered if she’d ever see her again… 

She finished reading through the rest of the news updates; there weren’t any reports of Steve being involved, either as a civilian or as Captain America. Where could he be? He had to have heard about the incident by now; all of D.C. would be buzzing with it. 

She’d wait until six— it’d be dark by then— and if Steve still hadn’t called back, she’d take her chances going out through the roof, down the fire escape on the back of the building, into the alley. It was her best chance. 

She sat in the tub, clutching the phone. 

Waited. 

* * *

She was tired. Hungry. She needed to pee. She’d already eaten the single nutrition bar she’d packed in her go-bag, and the room-temperature protein shake. 

Just before six, she got out of the tub again— her legs stiff and sore— peed in the toilet, on top of the sunken cell-phone parts, but didn’t dare to make noise with a flush. 

“Sorry, Clint,” she said, as she carefully closed the lid. Opened the bathroom door as quietly as she could. There were no sounds from the hallway outside the apartment, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. 

Moving as silently as possible, she opened the closet door in the hallway, got out the six-foot ladder she’d known was in there. Set it up under the access panel for the attic, and climbed up, her go-bag securely strapped to her back. 

She was able to reach up with her arms and slide the panel out of the way, and then she climbed the rest of the way up the ladder, and stepped off the top of it into the dark attic. 

She took a few seconds to replace the panel, even though it’d be obvious where she’d gone, with the ladder right there. She made her way through the cramped space, in the maze of trusses and wires and insulation, careful to step only on the path that Barton had laid out for himself, until she reached a small metal door. 

She slid open the bolt, and had to crouch down to get through it, but then she was out on the roof, in the cool night air, and she gulped in a breath, flooded with equal parts relief and fresh fear. She had to keep going. 

Instinctively keeping her body low, she skittered across the roof and over to the ladder that ran down the brickwork, connecting up to the fire-escape that would take her down to the narrow alley behind the building. 

She peeked over the edge, fearful that she’d find a line of ominous-looking SUVs, or an array of black-clad agents with assault rifles waiting for her. 

It was completely silent. Empty. Nothing but a bunch of dumpsters down below. She didn’t waste time: slung one leg over, her foot finding the rung, and then the other, not even thinking of how scared she’d be to do this under normal circumstances. She made it to the first landing, and ducked to avoid being seen through the window of the apartment there, and then continued down the fire escape. 

She winced as she descended, unable to soften the sound of the creaky old metalworks as she made her way down the multiple levels of the ancient, rickety, zig-zagging structure, until she reached the lowest landing. She found the drop-ladder, released and lowered it, climbed down the rungs, and then dropped the final few feet to the ground. 

She didn’t waste any time putting distance between herself and the building, immediately running into the adjacent dark alley, down half the block, and then stopped to catch her breath, hiding behind another building’s dumpster, and then finally risked a look back. 

The building looked quiet— dark and empty— but then she saw it: the occasional flash of several narrow beams of light, here and there: multiple people inside the mostly-dark building. Searching the apartments. For her. 

She knew she should keep running, as far and as fast as she could— hop on the subway and get to Grand Central or Penn Station and get far away— but she couldn’t; not yet: she had to know. 

She pulled out her phone and called May. 

The woman answered more quickly this time. “Where are you,” she said, without preamble. “Are you safe? Did you call Sitwell?” 

“Yeah,” said Darcy, keeping her voice to a whisper. “And he’s dirty. I wanted to warn you, in case they get me. He sent someone to retrieve me. I had to stun-gun her, and run away. Don’t know how many more are here, but looks like at least three. Probably more.” 

“What—” 

Darcy interrupted her, and fed her the lie. The test. “I’m up on the roof,” she said. “Hiding. I’m gonna hold up here ’til I can get through to Steve.” 

“You sure about Sitwell?” said May. Her voice was low now, too. 

“Hundred percent,” said Darcy. “Gotta be. The lady he sent— she was gonna take me. Her name was… Allison something. Merks. Allison Merks.” 

“Don’t know her,” said May, and then she hissed a curse. “_Shit_. This is bad. Real bad. I haven’t been able to confirm Fury’s status, from up here. But _God_, if Sitwell’s in on the hit…” 

She didn’t finish the statement. 

“I better hang up,” said Darcy. “Don’t wanna draw attention with the light.” 

“If you can’t reach Steve, you call me back when you can, okay?” said May. “Hang in there. You did good.” 

“Thanks,” said Darcy, wishing she could trust the woman without this test, but knowing it’d be stupid to. “I’ll try to reach you later.” 

“All right,” said May. “Be safe.” 

Darcy clicked off the phone and put it in her jacket pocket. It was cold, there in the alley, and she didn’t have any gloves or mittens. No hat or scarf. She realized she could give herself away just by the visible white clouds of breath that puffed out from her face every time she exhaled, and she crouched a little bit deeper behind the dumpster, trying to close her nose to the stench of old food and dirty diapers that wafted from the giant metal container. 

_Don’t be dumb_, said a voice inside her head. _Just go_. She was aware, as she waited there, for fifteen, then twenty, and finally, almost thirty minutes, that she couldn’t prove a negative. Couldn’t _prove_ that May wasn’t in on it. 

Still, when none of the flickering lights headed up to the roof; when no helicopter arrived overhead, aiming a searchlight on the top of the building; when not a single agent burst out of the roof-access door: her faith in the woman’s integrity was significantly bolstered. 

It was the best she could do, for now. Until she could see the woman in person. Shake her hand. Literally feel her out. 

She felt guilty, thinking back on it: how she’d accused John of giving her such a crappy gift— what she’d thought was some kind of hyper-masculine territorial claim, forever controlling who she could or could not comfortably, electively touch. But it’d proven not to be about control at all. It was a supernatural ability to sniff out their enemies— hers and John’s— so long as she could touch their flesh. 

It’d saved her life. 

She had no doubt she would be relying on it, moving forward. Maybe for the rest of their lives. God knew, she would do whatever she could to protect him, if she ever had the chance again. 

She was angry that she hadn’t seen it for what it was, from the beginning. With first Peck, and then Mark, at the bar… if only she’d known, they could have left… could have taken steps to protect themselves… could have gone somewhere far away… 

It did no good to think that way now. She had to think about moving forward. To be stronger. Smarter. Better. 

She finally left her spot behind the dumpster, putting her phone back into her bag and zipping it up, heading off briskly into the night, determined to get herself to Washington, in the chance that he was still there somewhere. 

“I’m coming,” she whispered, as her feet pounded the sidewalk, taking her farther and farther away from the ones who sought to steal her, to hurt her… and she wished that John could hear her, wherever he was— took strength in the knowledge that he was somewhere yet on the Earth, alive in the night… wished he could know that she was still out there, searching, together with Steve, both of them determined to find him… never giving up hope… 

She wanted him to know it. To feel it too: to not give up… 

_Keep fighting_, she thought, sending the words out to him, willing him to hear… _Keep fighting, keep living_… _we’re gonna find you_… 

She descended the stairs that took her down into the subway station, feeling, for the first time in two years, the thrill of knowing that at least, for that one day, he’d been only a train-ride away from her. 

He was alive, he was _awake_. Not frozen away in some dark, abandoned warehouse halfway around the globe. He was out there. He was close. Waiting for them to find him. 

She just prayed there would still be some of _John_ left inside— some of Bucky Barnes— when they did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing about Bucky breaking conditioning and being found in Brooklyn in 1972 is a nod to the comics version of the Winter Soldier story (created by Ed Brubaker: we can all thank him for the existence of this character!) In the comic, Winter Soldier carried out a mission in 1973 in America, but failed to report to the extraction point and was missing for weeks. When some sleeper agents in the U.S. recovered him, they took him back, and his handlers decided it was probably best not to let him do jobs in America anymore...
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  



	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A line of dialogue at the very end is lifted straight from CA:TWS.

It was after ten o’clock by the time she got to Penn Station. 

There’d been some kind of police action affecting the 8th Avenue line, and the train had stopped in Greenwich Village, near Washington Square Park— forcing everyone off and out of the station, back up into the still-busy night-time streets. 

She wasn’t very familiar with this part of the city, but according to the subway app on her phone, she could jump on a 1, 2, or 3 train about six blocks away. She headed off that way with the stream of disgruntled passengers, but after a couple of blocks of walking, she started to become uneasy: certain that a tall, sandy-haired man, keeping pace with her on the other side of the street, was looking at her oddly… 

She abruptly ducked into a little independent pizza place, watching through the glass storefront as the man continued to walk northward, away from her, never looking back. Probably nothing. Her heart was pounding. She didn’t know if she was being smart, or just paranoid: maybe both. 

There was only one other customer in the pizza shop: a older, dark-skinned guy with long, greying dreadlocks, sitting at a tiny table in the corner. He was reading a battered paperback book— _The Portable Nietzsche_— and drinking an old-fashioned bottle of 7-Up. 

“What can I get you,” said the guy behind the counter, snapping her out of her daze. He was middle-aged and friendly-looking, with messy dark hair and a big nose; his white apron look well-used and had a few stray orange stains on it. She blinked and looked with confusion at the pans of pizza laid out behind the glass in front of her. 

“Uh, mushroom and onion,” she said, trying to seem normal— like she’d planned to step inside and eat. 

“You got it,” said the guy, as he pulled off a huge slice of pizza and stuck it on a paper plate for her. He set the plate up top, and she reached up to get it, trying to control the way her hands were shaking. 

She swiveled her go-bag around on her shoulder so she could access the smaller zippered pocket, and dug out a wad of bills. 

“Keep the change,” she said, as she handed over enough to cover the cost, and the guy nodded his thanks. She pulled a couple of brown paper napkins from the dispenser by the register, and then walked the slice over to a little square table near the window and sat down. Pulled out her phone and checked messages again. 

Still no word from Steve. She was sick with worry. Where the hell was he? She tried calling again, but it was still going straight to voicemail. 

The table by the window gave her a good view of the street, and she scanned the block as she ate, looking for anyone lingering, loitering. It seemed like typical foot-traffic for a weekday night in that neighborhood: people walking home from restaurants and bars, students with backpacks… couples stepping out for a late movie or show. 

She didn’t see anyone suspicious, but when she thought back to the woman who’d come to her door— the agent in the puffer coat— she would have blended in perfectly with any of these people on the street; Darcy never would have looked at her twice. 

She finished her pizza, glad she’d gotten it: it was the first hot food she’d had in almost twenty-four hours. She stood up and dumped her trash, went back to the counter. The apron-guy was sitting on a stool behind the register; he looked up from his newspaper and set it aside. 

“You got any hot coffee?” she asked him. 

“Sure thing,” he said, and went to get it for her. She could see him pouring it from a carafe that’d been sitting on a hot plate. It was probably terrible— both watery and scalding: perfect. 

He brought the styrofoam cup over to her— she could see the steam coming off the surface— and she handed him a couple more bills. 

“Cream ’n sugar’s over there, if you need it,” he said, nodding to a counter off to the side. 

“Thanks,” she said, and walked over to the counter, but she skipped the cream and sugar, just grabbing a lid, which she put on loosely. The coffee wasn’t for drinking: if anyone tried to grab her, she’d throw it at their face… 

It took her about ten minutes to walk the rest of the way to the subway entrance. She tried to keep close to other groups of people walking the sidewalk, listening to their inane conversations, the cheerful tinkles of laughter bursting out— it was like they were roaming a different plane of reality from the one that Darcy inhabited. She wondered if she’d ever make it back: return to the world where you could laugh and smile and walk down the street with friends, maybe go get a drink… it seemed like an impossibility. Like she’d passed through some kind of one-way door, into the truths that lay beneath, no turning back… 

She could see the green-gated entrance to the subway up ahead, and she kept up with the group in front of her, who were headed that way as well. Went down the steps to the turnstiles, swiping her MetroCard to get through, and then stood by the largest crowd of people waiting on the platform. When the train pulled into the station, she fitted the lid more firmly onto the coffee before stepping into the car. 

She kept it ready for the entire ride, just in case— holding it with her right hand while she hung onto a pole with her left, keeping her balance as the car swayed and jerked, eyeing the other passengers warily. Carried it all the way through the crowds at Penn Station once they arrived. She was still holding it when she looked up at the board for the scheduled departures. 

She’d missed the last Amtrak of the night going to Washington. The next one departed at 3:25am, and wouldn’t arrive until after dawn. 

Well, shit. 

* * *

Her ticket granted her entry to the 24-hour Amtrak Waiting Room, which had plenty of open spots in the rows of uncomfortable, airport-style seating. The rest of the station, it seemed, became a homeless enclave at night, with street people coming in to get out of the cold; by eleven o’clock the walls of many of the passageways were lined with the rumpled shapes of human beings lying on their sides, their bags of belongings clustered around them like barrier wards, keeping the evil around them at bay… 

She’d tried to keep her eyes open— to stay alert and monitor the comings and goings of everyone around her— but exhaustion from all the fear and uncertainty had apparently caught up with her, because she was suddenly startling awake, her phone vibrating loudly in her hand. 

It was Steve. 

She sat up quickly, tapping to answer it, shouldering her bag as she swiftly stood, striding toward an open span of wall in the waiting area, hoping for a little more privacy. 

“Are you okay?” she hissed, as soon as she held the phone up to her ear. “Where are you?” 

“I’m all right,” he said, and it hit her like a physical thing: the relief of it, hearing his sturdy voice— alive— on the other end of the line. 

“What happened?” she said. “Did you get my messages? Have you seen the news?” She’d reached the wall, and she kept her body turned toward it, even as she glanced around to see if anyone was looking at her. 

“I’m… I’m at the hospital,” he said, and she could hear now that he was exhausted— wrecked. “He’s dead,” he said. “They just called it.” 

“Who’s dead?” she said, panicking, her heart suddenly picking up, stuttering… 

“Fury,” he said. “He— I’d just gotten back from Sam’s, and he was there: in my hotel room. All busted up. Warned me not to trust anyone, and then—” 

She didn’t know what he was talking about: who was Sam? 

“I saw him,” he said. “I saw Bucky.” 

“_What?_ Where?” 

“He was there: he’s the one who shot him. Right through the fuckin’ window. I tried to chase him. I mean, I did— I chased him, but he was too fast. I threw my shield and— he stopped it. Caught it, like it was nothin’. Threw it back…” 

He sounded like he was in a daze— tired, confused… 

“Are you sure you—” 

“It was him,” he said. “I got your messages; I saw the footage. I wasn’t sure myself, until— I saw his eyes, Darce. Could see him in there, for those three seconds he was lookin’ back at me. God, I wasn't—” 

He stopped for few seconds, like he was trying to compose himself. 

“I couldn’t stop him,” he said. “Couldn’t get close enough to talk to him, put a tracker on, nothin’. He got away. I yelled his name…” 

She heard him sigh, and then he said, “I’m sorry… I tried; I—” 

There was a loud announcement for a schedule change over the station’s P.A., and he must have heard it through the phone: “Where are you?” 

“I’m at Penn Station,” she said. Her legs were shaking, her whole body thrumming with nerves from Steve’s story, and she leaned against the wall, trying to steady herself. He’d _seen_ him. Interacted with him. 

She’d _known_ it was him, but hearing it confirmed… Her legs gave out a little, and she slid down the wall into a crouch, shutting her eyes for a moment... 

“I’m coming there,” she said. “I’m coming to Washington. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.” 

“No,” he said. “Don’t—” 

“They tried to get me,” she said, lowering her voice, even as she interrupted him. “At the apartment. I screwed up.” 

“What do you mean?” he said, his voice more urgent. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

“I called May,” she said. “When I couldn’t reach you— I was watching the footage, and— God, I totally fucked up. Blew our cover, the apartment…” 

“It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t worry about that. What—” 

“She told me to call this guy. Sitwell.” 

“Jasper Sitwell?” said Steve. 

“Yeah,” she said. “You know him?” 

“I’ve met him,” he said. "Just talked to him last night, n'fact. He’s in tight with the higher-ups, has a lot of connections with senators, PACs—” 

“He’s dirty,” she said, breaking in. “He knows about Bucky. May said he was there, from the beginning. When they pulled him out of his… whatever. His sleep. I guess she thought he… I don’t know. Anyway, I called him, and he told me to stay put. Sent an agent to the apartment. I was gonna go with her, but she touched me, and… it was like before. The sick feeling.” 

She almost broke down, then, reliving it as she told the story. “I panicked; I—” 

“What happened?” said Steve. “She hurt you?” 

“No; I— she went for a gun, I think, and I got her with the stun-gun— knocked her down, and then I took off. Hid out in Clint’s apartment for a while, and then I got out through the roof. Made it here, to the station. I can’t— I gotta get out of the city; I—” 

“God, Darce,” he said, and she could hear him let out a long breath. Knew he was probably angry at himself, for not being there to help her. “You safe there?” 

“Who’s Sam?” she said, switching gears, not wanting to rehash it, part of her still pushing it all away. 

“He, uh… he’s a guy I met yesterday, before I got called away on the op.” His voice drifted a little— “God, it seems like a week ago…” 

“So who is this guy?” she said, pressing him. 

“I was out jogging,” he said. “Tryin’ to burn off my anxiety over goin’ to see Peggy. He’s a vet. Works over at the V.A.” 

“Okay,” she said, a little warily. “You sure he… he wasn’t _meant_ to find you? Like a setup?” 

“Don’t think so,” he said. “My gut’s tellin’ me he’s a good guy. Nothin’ to do with SHIELD… which I gotta say, is pretty goddammed refreshing right now…” 

“God, tell me about it,” she said. “But I’m still gonna handshake this guy, if I get a chance.” 

They were both quiet for a moment, and then she had to ask. “Was he—” 

“I don’t know,” he said, knowing, without her saying, that she was asking about Bucky now. “He was… strong. God, he was so fast. Tough. I couldn’t catch him. I don’t know how we’re gonna—” 

She started to cry a little then, unable to keep it in anymore— the exhaustion, the emotion of hearing about him, really there— really _alive_… 

“What time does the train get in,” said Steve, his voice gentle. “I— I gotta go back into HQ tomorrow. Got a meeting with Secretary Pierce. He’s gonna want to know about Fury, about— _fuck_, I’m gonna have to lie about Bucky…” 

“You’re a shitty liar,” she said, sniffling. 

“Yeah, I know it.” 

“Where are you staying?” she said, trying to get a hold of herself. “Can I—” 

“I’ll come get you at the station,” he said. “I’m gonna see if I can get a room at another hotel, once I leave the hospital… somewhere nobody knows… I don’t really trust anyone anymore, not after—” 

“How’s Nat?” she said, finally shoring herself up enough to think of someone else. “I know she and Fury—” 

“She’s messed up,” he said. “But you know how she is.” 

“Yeah,” she said, and then they were both quiet again for a minute. 

“You gonna be okay?” he said. “How long ’til your train leaves?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “What time is it now?” She pulled the phone away from her ear long enough to check the time at the top of the screen. It was coming up on midnight. She put the phone back to her ear. “I still got over three hours ’til I can start heading over to the platform,” she said. “Fuck, I don’t know how I’m gonna stay awake.” 

“You want me to keep talkin’?” he said. 

“Could you?” she said; she pushed up off the floor and headed back over to the seating area again, knowing she had to sit, but not wanting to spend the rest of the night on the floor. She found a place a few seats away from a dozing family and sat down, putting her bag in her lap, holding it to herself protectively. 

He stayed on the line with her for over an hour… told her about everything that’d happened since he’d arrived in Washington… 

Told her about the op: Sitwell had been there, on the ship that he and Nat and the STRIKE team had been sent to liberate. Sitwell had been among the hostages— the other SHIELD agents who’d been on board. And then he’d caught Nat downloading something from the ship’s computer onto a thumb drive. Steve was convinced that whatever it’d been— the information she’d retrieved—had been the trigger for the hit on Fury… 

Told her about seeing Peggy again— how hard it’d been; how she hadn’t known him at all, at first, and then all of a sudden she had: like it was the first time she’d seen him after the ice… reliving it, all over again, from the very beginning… 

Told her about the Smithsonian exhibit. It had an entire display devoted to Bucky, but it was filled with falsehoods, the greatest of which being the assertion that he’d been the only Howlie to die in the line of duty… 

Told her about meeting Sam Wilson— a former pararescueman— and the good work he was doing over at the V.A. How it’d inspired him in a way that was different from the work he was doing for SHIELD, or as one of the Avengers… 

And then, finally, he told her more about Bucky— details he’d left out before: what he’d looked like up close, in person. Long hair, some kind of mask covering the bottom half of his face. 

“He had a metal arm,” he said. “Not like a… it wasn’t a normal…” He was fishing around for the right words to describe it. “It wasn’t hidden, like on TV; the jacket was cut away on that side, so I could see the whole thing. Like a… like what the news was sayin’: like a cyborg, or—” 

“How are we gonna find him?” she said, her voice sounding small, almost hopeless. 

“If Sitwell’s dirty, then he’s not the only one,” said Steve, grimly. “This goes deep. Maybe all the way back to… remember before New York? When I found that Hydra stuff up on the Helicarrier?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “I was thinking about it, when I was hiding out at Clint’s.” 

“So maybe what happened at the base… maybe that wasn’t a— a one-time thing. A new thing. Maybe Hydra’s been hiding inside of SHIELD all along,” he said. 

“God…” She thought back to it, to the base in the desert. Wondered how many of the people there had been dirty. “I tried to— I sort of did a test, to see if May was in on it.” She explained to him about calling May back, about waiting to see if anyone stormed the roof in Brooklyn. “I know it’s not proof, but…” 

“I think she’s okay,” said Steve. “She knew exactly where we were, back at the cabin up north. She had more than week to send someone in, if she’d wanted to; knew you were gonna be vulnerable, with bein’ sick and all… I don’t think she’s in on it.” 

“Well, I’ve got my own super-power now,” she said, “and I’m not gonna be shy about using it. Gonna be shaking so many hands, people are gonna think I’m running for office…” 

She heard him chuckle a little at her joke, and she smiled back, even though he couldn’t see her, and then she closed her eyes again and sighed... so beyond tired, both physically and emotionally, and part of her still couldn’t believe it: that Steve had actually _seen_ him. Had looked into his eyes, even if just for a moment, from a distance... 

She wondered if seeing Steve had unlocked anything inside of the Soldier— any traces of memory, or even just some tiny seeds of confusion. Like the way John had seemed confused that first day, down in the basement, gazing up at the pictures of Captain America on TV, all the newscasters talking excitedly about Steve Rogers… 

And he’d caught the shield— had seen it; handled it… maybe it would stir something… 

“Shit,” said Steve. “Phone’s gonna die. I gotta— I need to find somewhere to plug in. Gotta find a place to crash for a few hours, before I fall over.” 

“Where’s Nat?” 

“Don’t know,” he admitted. “She took off; didn’t tell me where she was going…” 

“I’m sorry,” she said. It really hit her then, for the first time, that Fury was dead because John had _killed_ him, and she started to tear up again. “How’s he ever gonna come back from this?” she whispered. 

“You gonna be all right?” he asked softly, instead of trying to answer her question; there was no honest way to answer it. “Call me when you get in, okay? I’ll be there, waiting…” 

“I will,” she said, and her voice broke a little. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried…” 

“Love you, Darce.” 

“Love you too.” 

* * *

It was seven o’clock in the morning when the train pulled into Union Station in Washington. She’d texted Steve to let him know, and he’d texted right back: 

_We’re by Starbucks just outside the gates_. 

“_We?_” she typed back, hoping it was Nat with him. 

_Me and Sam_, he said. _He let me crash at his place_. 

She spotted Steve easily as soon as she walked through the doorways from the gates to the concourse. He was in one of his crappy disguises: twill jacket, ballcap, and aviator sunglasses. He looked like someone pretending to be a federal agent, except for the beard he was working on again. The absurdity of it would have made her laugh, if the circumstances had been different. 

The man standing next to him— had to be Sam— was fit, attractive: the kind of guy Darcy would have taken a second look at, before she met John… He had dark brown skin, a close-cropped, military-style haircut, and trim, understated facial hair. He was holding a small, white, to-go cup of coffee. The two of them together looked like a couple of actors in a buddy-cop movie. 

Sam saw her first, as she made a beeline toward them; he nodded his head in her direction and she heard him say, “That her?” to Steve, who turned and saw her, his shoulders letting go of some tension as soon as he laid eyes on her. 

“Hey,” he said quietly, wrapping her up in a soft hug as she reached him. “You all right?” 

“Exhausted,” she said. “Running on fumes.” 

“Same here,” said Steve, and then he nodded to the other man as he released her. “This is Sam. Sam? Darcy…” 

She held out her hand, inviting him to shake it, and he switched his coffee to his left hand, so he could reach out with his right. 

She blew out a long breath, nervous in spite of Steve’s assurances… already thinking about what they were gonna do, in this public place, if she felt the telltale nausea… she’d grab his coffee, try to toss it in his face, just like she’d planned to do back on the streets of Manhattan, with the coffee from the pizza place… 

Sam gripped her hand with his big one, and he raised one eyebrow when she clasped it tightly: hanging on, pressing her flesh thoroughly into his, wanting to be sure… 

Waiting… 

Nothing. 

She let go and looked up to Steve, letting out a breath. “He’s clear,” she said. 

Sam looked back and forth between the two of them. “I just pass some kind of test?” 

“Yeah,” she said, looking back at him, finally giving him a tentative smile. His eyes were very big… a pretty, deep-dark brown. “Sorry,” she said. “Don’t know who to trust these days.” 

“S’all right,” he said, and she could see that he meant it, and, to his credit, didn’t require any more explanation. “You want a coffee or anything before we get outa here?” 

“No,” she said, and then, “Where are we going?” 

“Thought it’d be best for you to hide out at Sam’s,” said Steve, “while I go to this meeting…” 

“You’re still goin’ to that?” said Sam, sounding incredulous, as the three of them started walking, heading toward the escalators that would take them to the main level. “Even with knowin’ what you know? Or think you know?” 

“Gotta feel it out,” said Steve. “Try to see how far up this goes. And anyway, they don’t know I’m onto them, so I gotta act accordingly…” 

“Yeah, all right,” said Sam. “Just sayin’… you track a yellow-jacket back to the nest, you don’t go diggin’ it up… least, not in the daytime. You gotta wait ’til night, when all of ‘em are back inside…” 

* * *

She crashed in the guest room for a few hours, after Steve suited up and went off to his scheduled meeting with Secretary Pierce. It was Sam’s first time seeing Steve in his superhero uniform, and he was adorably a little star-struck, though he tried to play it cool. Steve was funny about it— told him that it was easier for him to lie as Captain America than as Steve Rogers— but Darcy knew that it was actually true. 

The plan was to meet up later that afternoon, and then figure out what to do next. 

Sam was the perfect host; she was under the impression that he’d paused his own life indefinitely, to help out a guy he’d only known for twenty-four hours, and a woman he’d known for a fraction of that. 

She’d wondered, at first, if he’d do that for anybody, or if it was just because he’d been lucky enough to cross paths with _Captain America_. Within an hour of meeting him, she’d decided that he’d probably do it for anyone. She could see why Steve had latched onto the guy: he was the real deal— a good man. 

When she woke up, bleary-eyed and hungry, just before lunchtime, he volunteered to make her a smoothie and a sandwich: an offer she gratefully accepted, sitting down at his breakfast table with her phone in hand. 

“Bananas all right?” he asked. 

“You kidding?” she said. 

“Some people don’t like ‘em,” he explained. 

“Well, those people would be wrong,” she said, and caught his grin when she glanced up. 

She wolfed down the sandwich he delivered to her— checking the latest news feeds while she chewed— while Sam whipped up the smoothie in a blender. There were several new amateur video clips of the attack on Fury, with updates indicating that he’d been confirmed dead: killed in a second attack at a hotel, later that night. 

Her heart ached as she watched the additional footage of John— of _Bucky_— strutting purposefully with his gun toward his target. The news reports were now referring to him as an _assassin_. As much as she hated that— the sound of it, the way they were talking about him— it was an accurate term for what had happened. 

Even if they managed to bring him in now, it was very possible that the Good Guys— if there were any of them left, when the dust settled— would want to try him for the murder of Fury. 

Or maybe not, her brain reasoned: Barton had been exonerated of all murder charges when it’d become clear that he’d been unable to steer his own actions while under Loki’s control. Even some of the victims’ families had written to him, to tell him they didn’t blame him. The person who yet held him most responsible— tormented him— was Barton himself. She wondered if it would be the same for John. 

The noise of the blender stopped, and Sam poured out two large servings, one for each of them. 

“That your man?” he said softly, as he set hers down next to her empty plate. He could see the video on her phone, over her shoulder. 

“Steve tell you?” she asked. 

“Not much,” he said. “A little.” 

“I hope you’re not gonna tell me that it’s crazy to—” 

“I wouldn’t,” he said, interrupting, as he pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. “And it’s not crazy.” 

“You have someone?” she asked, not looking at him. She clicked the phone off and set it face down on the table; moved her plate out of the way so that she could slide her smoothie over. It smelled good: bananas and berries and almond... 

“Had,” he said, and then a couple seconds later, “Lost him.” 

She looked up at him then— saw the way he was holding his face very still. “I’m sorry,” she said, and when he met her eyes, he nodded minutely, and it was enough; she could see that they understood each other. 

* * *

She helped Sam clean up, and then she lay back down while they waited to hear from Steve. Her entire body felt sore, like all the stress and fear from the day before had been the equivalent of running a marathon. She hadn’t planned to fall asleep again, and she only realized she had when the sound of her phone going off woke her up: she’d set her alerts to buzz if there was any more breaking news out of Washington. 

She could hear sirens, in the distance, somewhere in the city… 

The phone was right there, next to her hand on the bed, and she flipped it over and swiped it on to check the alert. She was scrambling to get out of the bed a few seconds later. “Sam,” she called out, as she leaned down to grab her sneakers, and then again, louder: “_Sam!_” 

They almost ran into each other as they converged in the hall. “What is it,” he said. “Fell asleep on the couch— you all right?” 

“Look,” she said, handing her phone over. He took in the headline on her screen and then he strode purposefully back to the livingroom; picked up the remote on the coffee table and turned on the big flat-screen TV. The same headline was on the first network station he tried, the chyron at the bottom of the screen blaring it out in huge, static words: 

_CAPTAIN AMERICA DECLARED FUGITIVE FROM S.H.I.E.L.D._

“Aw, hell,” said Sam, under his breath, as they both took in the looping footage that was running behind the news reader: someone had captured a shot of Steve, in his Captain America uniform, falling from halfway up the towering edifice of the Triskelion in a shower of broken glass, his shield breaking his fall. A few seconds later he was up again, dashing away from the scene… 

Another shot showed him on a motorcycle, bearing down on a Quinjet hovering just over the roadway— it was firing a rain of bullets on him… 

“Oh my God,” said Darcy. Every part of her body was tingling, the fear coursing through her. “They’re not even— they’re trying to _kill_ him… what the _fuck_…” 

“He got away, though,” said Sam, his voice intense. “He got away.” He was scrolling through his own phone now, pulling up all the news feeds. “They shut down the airports— even the stoplights are out, city-wide… they’re shuttin’ down the whole city, lookin’ for him.” He looked up at her. “This is bad. Real bad.” 

“What do we do?” 

“We stay put,” he said. 

“We can’t just—” 

“I made him a promise,” said Sam, holding her eyes. “To keep you safe, if anything—” 

“But he’s all alone out there; he’s—” 

“What about that woman he works with,” he said. “The redhead. Picked him up the other morning in some kinda fancy car.” 

“Natasha,” said Darcy. “Is she still here? In town?” 

“Don’t know,” said Sam. “She was last night; Steve said she was there with him, at the hospital.” 

“Right,” said Darcy. She was pacing, glancing at the TV every few seconds. They were making Steve sound like a criminal. Like a traitor. It filled her with a raw, hot anger… 

“Knew he shouldn’ta gone in there alone,” said Sam, shaking his head. 

“If you’d gone with him, you’d probably be dead now,” she said, watching the replay of Steve falling from the building. The fall was spectacular— over seventy feet, his body crashing through a skylight on the way down. The networks were loving it. 

“Maybe not,” he said, and she looked at him quizzically, but he didn’t elaborate. 

* * *

It was almost two hours later when Steve finally called. She didn’t recognize the number, but as soon as she picked up, he starting speaking immediately, before she could even ask who it was. 

“I’m okay,” he said. “I’m with Nat.” 

Natasha never used the same phone twice. It made it impossible to trace her, but also impossible to reach her, which was definitely intentional. She’d had some other system in place with both Fury and Barton, but Darcy had never determined what it was. 

“Where are you?” said Darcy, and she nodded as she looked at Sam, confirming to him that Steve was all right. 

“We’re, uh… we’re headed to Jersey.” 

“What?” she said. “Why? What’s in New Jersey?” 

“Following up on some intel. That thumb drive.” 

“Sam and I’ve been watching the news all afternoon,” she said, as she paced back and forth. “God, it’s bad. It’s really bad. The D-oh-T shut the whole city down. What the hell happened? Are you gonna be able to get back here? Back into the city?” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m gonna try. I can’t let them— God, Darce: the whole STRIKE team, they— people I put in time with. Fought beside, trusted. It’s like the whole goddamn organization is dirty, top to bottom…” 

“Are you guys safe for now?” 

“Think so,” he said. “Don’t know what we’ll find at the end of this trail, though.” He let out a breath. “I better go.” 

“Okay,” she said. “But call me later if you can.” 

“I will,” he said. “Stay put. Stay with Sam. Promise me.” 

He was so earnest, his concern for her leaking through the phone— even after everything he’d been through that afternoon. It made her heart clench— made her even angrier about the stuff they were saying on TV. Steve Rogers was one of the best men she knew. 

And now she knew another: she was calling it Fate that Steve had met Sam on that jog. Nobody else knew about Sam— nobody could; nobody would look for her here. It was the only reason she felt safe for the moment. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “I promise.” 

* * *

She and Sam were up until three in the morning, glued to the television, scrolling through their phones, awaiting any word from Steve or Natasha, but there was nothing. The only thing they had to go on— the only positive to tamp down their anxiety— was the old adage that ‘_no news was good news_’. 

All of the reports conveyed the same frustration that the fugitive Steven Grant Rogers was still at large. Everyone seemed to assume that he couldn’t have gotten out— that he was holed up in the city somewhere— and all the news teams were breathlessly awaiting some kind of massive police-action once he was tracked down. They were salivating for it. 

There was comfort in knowing that he was already several states away, if his plans with Nat had worked out… 

With nothing new to report, all the talking heads were now diving into outlandish speculation about how the rogue behavior of Captain America could tie in with the attack on Director Fury, and his subsequent murder. There’d been no more sightings of the ‘masked assassin’, and some were now suggesting that the two could be working together to undermine the stability of the United States intelligence community. The question that remained, and which had now claimed everyone’s focus, was _why?_

“What a bunch of horse-shit,” said Sam, plunking down the bottle of beer he’d been nursing for an hour. “The man’s a goddamned hero, not a—” He didn’t finish the statement. 

“I guess it’s really true what they say,” said Darcy, still staring at the screen. 

“What’s that,” said Sam. 

Darcy took a swallow of her own beer and put it down. “People like to see a hero fall.” 

* * *

“I’m goin’ out for a minute,” said Sam the next morning. “Get the mail, run down to the corner for some milk.” He answered the question before she could even ask it. “Think you better stay put.” 

“I hate this,” she said. “I hate not knowing. You’d think after two years of looking for John I’d be used to being in the dark, but…” 

She was interrupted by the sound of a light rapping on the door. Sam looked at her and waved silently to her, to get out of sight. He lifted the mini-blinds to see who it was, and then turned to speak to her even as he moved to open the door. “It’s them,” he said. 

“What happened?” said Sam, as he moved aside to let first Natasha, and then Steve come in, and then shut and re-bolted the door. They looked liked shells of themselves: beat-up, haggard. Haunted, almost. 

“They found us,” said Steve. “Tracked us, or already knew where we were headed. Dropped a fuckin’ missile on us— brought down the whole goddamned base, right on top of us. We got out before they could verify the kill.” 

“A _missile?_” said Darcy. “Jesus…” 

She’d pulled out a chair at the breakfast table, so Natasha could sit down. She’d never seen the woman look so dazed, and it was disarming, because if Natasha was ever one thing, it was _in control_. Always. Now she looked rudderless— knocked sideways, listing... 

Darcy knew that look— recognized it, because she’d experienced it herself. It was the way you looked when you realized that the people you thought you could trust turned out to be a bunch of filthy liars. 

“So what’s the plan?” said Sam. He went to the fridge and pulled out a pitcher of filtered water, poured out a couple of tall glasses, and delivered them to Natasha and Steve. 

“Sitwell,” said Nat, as she put her hands around the glass, like she was grounding herself with it. She looked up at Steve, who nodded his head. He sat down, taking the other seat. 

“Sitwell,” he said, agreeing, and then looked at Darcy. 

“Fuck, yeah,” she said. “Sitwell.” 

Sam was just standing there, still holding the pitcher he’d refilled from the tap. “I take it this Sitwell is some low-down dirty dog who needs to have his ass whipped,” he said. He put the pitcher back in the fridge and then turned around, looked at Steve. “Y’all need an extra hand?” 

Steve looked up at him, measuring. “Gonna be dangerous.” 

“Hang on,” said Sam, and they watched him leave the room— could hear him rummaging around in his home office, one room over. 

Darcy and Natasha both looked at Steve, who just shrugged, his expression saying, _don't ask me_. 

Sam returned after a couple minutes, dropping a file folder onto the breakfast table. 

“What’s this,” said Steve, sitting up to look at it. 

“Call it a resumé,” said Sam. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more lines in this chapter are lifted straight from CA:TWS. A couple on the roof, and a few more on the helicarrier.
> 
> **TW: implied suicidal thoughts**

It only took a few phone calls for Natasha to piece together Sitwell’s schedule for the day. 

Darcy sat at the breakfast table, fascinated, as she watched the other woman work: the spy used a variety of methods, depending on whom she was speaking to, including calling in favors, impersonating other agents or officials, and making outright threats. By mid-morning, she knew where Sitwell was going to be for the next eight hours. 

“Here, I think,” said Natasha. She was talking to Steve, who was leaning over her shoulder, looking at her notes. “He’s having a late lunch with Senator Stern. We can take him on his way out.” 

* * *

“You a hundred percent sure about this guy?” said Sam, after they’d discussed the plan. Sam had scrounged up a couple more chairs, and they were all sitting around the breakfast table, finalizing the timeline. 

“You don’t have to do this,” said Steve. “Nat and I—” 

“Didn’t say I wanted out,” said Sam. “But if we’re really gonna take the law into our own hands…” He paused, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back in his chair. “Guess what I’m sayin’ is, I’d feel better about us pushin’ a guy off a building if I knew for sure that he was as dirty as you all seem to think he is…” 

“Take me with you,” said Darcy. “If you can get me close to him, I can touch him— skin-to-skin. All the bad guys so far, it’s only taken a second for me to feel it.” She nodded to Sam. “You’ll have your confirmation. We all will.” 

“I don’t—” Steve started to say, and then he pushed up from the table, and stepped away from it a few paces. They all waited, and finally he turned around again, shook his head without looking at her. “I can’t risk you.” 

“I say let her do it,” said Natasha levelly, unblinking as she kept her eyes on Steve. “She can handle herself. He won’t even know who she is, if we play it right. She could bump into him… in and out in less than a minute, in a busy public place. The risk is minimal.” 

Steve just continued to stare at the ground, one hand on his hip. 

“Steve,” said Natasha, a little more gently, and that actually made him look up: she never called him by his first name. “Let her do it.” 

“I wanna help,” said Darcy. “This is something— finally something I can _do_.” 

“It could give us more leverage,” said Natasha, and then, a bit wryly, added, “or a way to help defend our actions, if things don’t go our way down the road. Sam’s right: we’re still just operating on a hunch. A strong one, but…” 

Steve let out a long sigh, finally looked at Darcy, held her eyes as he spoke. “I ain’t gonna tell you what you can and can’t do,” he said. “You know that. But let’s figure out a way for you to be safe, all right? Work it all out so you know what to do, have a plan to get out of there.” 

He raised his eyebrows then, almost smiled a little. “And not a word of this to Buck when we get him back, you hear?” He shook his head again. “Guy’d have my head,” he muttered, “he found out I let his girl put herself in harm’s way…” 

Darcy was nodding, blinking back tears for a second, because it was the first time he’d said it like that, out loud: _when_ they got him back. Not if: _when_. 

“You got yourself a deal,” she said. 

* * *

They had to scramble a bit to get everything they needed, most of their time taken up by the field trip over to Fort Meade to retrieve the EXO-7 flight suit that Sam was planning to wear. There were another couple stops after that— Nat and Darcy to a department store, while Sam handled the groceries and Steve lay low in the car— but by one forty-five in the afternoon, Darcy was in position and ready to go. 

She was alone: sitting at a small, wrought-iron table in the crowded outdoor section of a busy hotel bistro, pretending to check something on her phone. Sitwell was due to wrap up his lunch date with Senator Stern any minute, at the fancy restaurant across the way; she had a clear line of sight to the doors, just beyond a wide cement staircase with golden metal railings. She was glad that the schedule had been so tight; there’d been no time to wait around and get nervous. 

She knew Sam was behind her and to her left, at a table about twenty paces away, waiting to phone Sitwell with the threat. Natasha was on the roof with a laser-sighted rifle, and Steve was in a car down the block. Sam had already called the cab for Darcy— had paid the guy to wait for her on the other side of the hotel. 

She’d never done anything like this before, but oddly, she wasn’t frightened. She felt completely focused on the plan, which hopefully ended with Jasper Sitwell giving them some useful information, and then paying dearly for his part in hurting her man— and for whatever else the asshole was up to. 

“They’re coming out,” said Natasha, her voice low but clear in the concealed earpiece. “They’ve each got a couple of guys hovering around. Wait for my signal. Remember: you’re a stupid, clumsy girl. In a hurry. Don’t say too much.” 

Darcy stood up from the table— gathered up her stuff, glancing over toward the restaurant as she stopped to toss her half-full coffee-to-go into a nearby trash bin. 

She could see a group of men lingering outside the front door, at the top of the steps. She recognized Sitwell right away: he looked just like the pictures she’d seen online. The senator was an older, doughy-looking white guy. They each had a couple of goons guarding them: the standard-issue sturdy-looking paramilitary types in suits, their hands clasped loosely in front of their bodies, eyes subtly scanning the people around them. Darcy looked away before any of them could make eye contact. 

It was warm for January, but not so warm that Darcy looked out-of-place in the disguise that Natasha had picked out for her. She was wearing a hip-length black winter coat with a fluffy, sable-edged hood, which she wore down, off her head, her eyes hidden behind oversized black-framed sunglasses. Her dark-wash jeans were tucked snugly into knee-high brown leather boots with a modest heel. Her hair was pulled back into a sharp ponytail, and she had heavy makeup on: liquid foundation and a reddish-brown lip color she never would have chosen. She wouldn’t have recognized herself in a lineup. 

She had a large, tacky, faux-crocodile handbag; she slung it over her shoulder, and carefully picked up the paper grocery bag: it held a couple of tall cans of Mexican beer, a pack of cigarettes, and a half-dozen limes. The bag’s bottom had been pre-ripped partway; her hands were cradling it, holding it together… 

She glanced at the men again: Sitwell was giving the senator a man-hug— the other man whispered something in his ear— and then the group split up. Sitwell said something to his personal goon squad, and they nodded to him and stepped away, leaving the SHIELD agent alone on the steps. 

“They went to get his car,” said Natasha, and then a few seconds later she said, “Go.” 

Darcy didn’t hesitate— swung around and began to briskly walk toward the steps, in a path that would take her straight past Sitwell, who, like the self-important asshole he was, was loitering right at the top of the steps, partially blocking the way, forcing other pedestrians to go around— to walk against the flow of foot traffic on the other side. 

Just before she reached him, she pretended to trip, and let the bottom of the bag bust out. The two beer cans and cigarettes fell onto the cement, while the limes scattered and rolled, one of them bouncing down the steps like the baby carriage in _Battleship Potemkin_. 

“Aw, crap,” she said, crouching down right next to Sitwell, pretending to struggle to gather up the fallen groceries. She set the big handbag down and put the cans of beer into it, and then looked around, trying to gather up the limes. 

Sitwell glanced around, like he was looking for someone else to step in— irritated to be caught up in such a mundanely inept moment— but then he finally succumbed to the social pressure, and bent down long enough to help her pick up the fruit by his feet. “Thanks,” said Darcy. “I guess one of ‘em got away, huh?” 

He didn’t respond, but when she reached out to accept the two limes he was holding out to her, she deliberately bumped her hands into his as she accepted them, trying not to react too strongly when the nausea hit her instantly. 

_Yeah_, she thought. _I see you, Motherfucker_. 

“Thanks again,” she said, a bit less perky this time, with the way she wanted to heave— or maybe just shove the shithead over right there, and kick him in the nuts a few times. Instead, she dropped the limes and the packet of cigarettes into the handbag, and then turned away, grabbing up the ripped remains of the grocery bag before standing back up to stumble away as quickly as she could. She was already speaking into the mic hidden in the faux fur of her hood, as soon as her back was turned. 

“Check,” she said quietly, knowing Nat could hear her even at a whisper. “Major check. I knew it— guy’s fuckin’ dirty as they come. I bet that senator is, too.” 

“We’ll get to him later,” said Natasha, and then she said, “Sam? Good enough for you?” 

“Yup,” said Sam. “Let’s do it.” 

It was Steve’s voice in her ear next: “Darcy, get out of here. Sam, make the call.” 

Darcy was already walking rapidly toward the other side of the courtyard, to the street where the cab was waiting. She signaled to him and let herself in the back, gave the cabbie Sam’s address, and then sat back and put her seat-belt on, her heart pounding. 

She’d wanted to stay: to go with them and watch while they interrogated that rat-fucker. Wanted to watch as Nat made the guy piss himself. Wanted to stun-gun his balls and demand to know where John was. But she knew she would only be a liability: she wasn’t a soldier; wasn’t a spy. She kept the earpiece in, though, so she could at least hear what was being said. 

It was your basic kidnaping, in broad daylight, by a couple of fugitive super-heroes and a well-meaning USAF veteran who’d known them for all of a day, and part of her couldn’t believe she was involved in anything like this— but then she’d never asked to be. 

Jasper Sitwell had brought it on himself. He’d been there from the start, side-by-side with Coulson, when they’d unfrozen John. Had probably been the one to place him at the desert base. The bad guys must have had plans for him there— some role for him to play in their long game— and then she’d come along and messed things up by triggering his soulmark… 

She’d never be able to forget it: the way John had sounded when they’d taken him down with the stun batons… the way he’d fought back, again and again, until they’d hurt him so badly that he’d passed out. She could never un-hear it, un-see it. And God only knew what they’d done to him since then… 

Any kind of normal rules for these people had gone out the window when they’d taken her man— brutally— roping him back into some kind of forced servitude, like an enslaved attack-dog… like he _belonged_ to them… like they had the _right_… 

People like Sitwell always thought they had the right. 

* * *

By the time Darcy was letting herself into Sam’s place with the key he’d given her, she could tell that they already had Sitwell up on the roof of the building they’d picked out. She could hear Steve barking questions at him, almost uncontrolled: angry. 

Questions about the hit on Fury— who was behind it; who’d given the order. Questions about Project Insight. About Bucky. Natasha was quiet, letting him do it. Darcy knew that Sam was waiting somewhere down below… ready to catch Sitwell after he fell… 

Her heart was still pounding as she sat down on Sam’s couch, listening to it unfold— worried that things could go terribly wrong, but trying to trust the capability of her friends… reminding herself that they weren’t normal people— that this sort of thing was all part of a day’s work for them… 

Well, maybe not for Sam… 

Steve must have been right up against Sitwell’s body, crowding him, because she could hear the other man just as clearly, trying to call Steve’s bluff: 

_“Is this little display meant to insinuate that you’re gonna throw me off the roof?_” he said. Asshole sounded almost cocky as he said it, like he was grinning: like he thought he still held all the cards… “_It’s really not your style_…” 

“You’re right,” said Steve, sounding calm now. “It’s not. It’s hers.” 

There was a scuffling _thump_ followed by the sound of a scream— loud at first, and then steadily receding— and Darcy knew that Natasha had done it: had kicked the guy off the roof. 

Attempted murder, just like that. Easy as breathing. The woman was a little terrifying. 

A few seconds later there was another distant shriek, and then another loud thump, closer up, and Darcy knew that Sam had done his part as well: had used his mechanical wings to ‘rescue’ Sitwell and redeliver him for the rest of the conversation. 

They didn’t have to ask any more questions: she could hear Sitwell spilling his guts, probably about as fast as he’d filled his pants during the fall… telling them everything they wanted to know about Project Insight and the hit on Fury— but he stopped short of giving them a location for Bucky. 

“That was her, wasn’t it,” he said instead. “I get it now. The girl on the steps. It was Lewis.” He laughed then, humored, like he knew he had nothing left to lose. Maybe wanted to gloat a little before he got it, however he was gonna get it. “If she’s listening in, you can tell her it’s a lost cause. They’ve scrambled his brains so many times he doesn’t even know he’s a real person. He’s a fucking machine. _Our_ machine. There is no ‘Barnes’ anymore.” 

“You’re wrong,” said Steve. 

Darcy figured Steve had said it for her sake: to push back against the horrible things that Sitwell had said. For all they knew, the asshole could be right. He could be telling them the truth, as far as he understood it. But she had to keep believing that it was just a taunt, a cheap lie… that the possibility still lived: that there was a still a man inside the Soldier… someone to bring home… 

* * *

The press for more information about Bucky would have to wait, in favor of the more immediate crisis: the interrogation had revealed Hydra’s intentions to use the Helicarriers to take out their enemies across the globe: tens of millions of people, several hundred thousand at a time, using satellite targeting data. 

Steve, Nat, and Sam were ferrying Sitwell back to the Triskelion, hatching a plan to use the man’s biometrics to break into the system: to alter the code, and keep Project Insight grounded. 

Darcy could still hear their conversation— could hear Sitwell’s pathetic arguments inside the car, trying to convince them their plan was ridiculous, doomed to fail— when there was the sound of a crash: breaking glass and the crunch of crumpling metal: maybe a collision— and then the communications abruptly cut out. 

She sat up straighter on the couch, pulled out the earpiece. Checked it: it seemed fine. _Fuck_. Whatever had happened on their end— maybe a car accident— must have cut them off. 

She hoped it was an accident… not something deliberate…. 

She found the TV remote and clicked it on, cycling through the networks, looking for any local breaking news, while she tried to reach Steve on his phone. It went straight to voice mail. She stood up, began pacing back and forth. Tried Sam. No answer. 

There was nothing to do but wait. She still had the heavy makeup on, and it felt suffocating and dirty, and she tried to distract herself for a few minutes, going into the guest bathroom to wash it off, using a warm washcloth to get it out of all the nooks and crannies. Once her face was bare, she stared at herself in the mirror for a good minute. She felt like all her cells were vibrating. She needed to _do_ something. She felt useless, and she hated it. 

By the time she got back to the livingroom, the stations were all covering it: some kind of massive firefight following a terrible traffic collision on the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. 

There were confirmed sightings of both Captain America and ‘a redhead’, along with a ‘guy with some kind of winged jet-pack’, battling the assassin who’d allegedly killed Director Fury, along with an undetermined number of heavily armed men, affiliation unknown, discharging their weapons in the streets. 

It was a complete mess, and the reporters were struggling to make sense of it, none of it fitting with any of the speculation thus far. Nobody could figure out who the good guys were anymore, which was making it difficult for them to tell a story, as opposed to simply reporting the news. 

“It’s like a gang war down there,” said one of the correspondents, speaking from high above in a helicopter. 

“Are you able to give us a better view, Paul?” said the newsreader; the chopper was hovering over the bridge, and all they could see of the firefight in the distance, on the road below, were flashes of heavy weapons-fire and blurs of black-clad men dashing between cars. A city bus lay on its side, most of the windows blown out— evidence of more destruction. Shards of glass and bullet casings covered the street, looking as though the hand of God had strewn the landscape with the evidence of the folly of man… 

“We’re trying,” said the guy in the chopper. “We’re being told that SHIELD is working with local law enforcement to limit all access to the area, so they can send in their own specialists to apprehend Captain Rogers… They, uh… they have no comment on the other individuals. They’re asking for our cooperation, and, uh… we’re doing what we can to abide, for now…” 

“God_dammit_,” said Darcy, out loud, desperate to see what was happening. 

A couple minutes later, the guy in the chopper had an update: “I can see the… I think these are the SHIELD vehicles coming in now— they’re blocking the exits and— _holy_…” There was a pause and the guy sounded like he was talking to someone else, though his mic was still picking it up: “Was that a frickin’ rocket launcher? Move it in; move it in…” 

The chopper circled the area widely and came at it from a different angle, apparently deciding they no longer needed to ‘abide’, in favor of getting the story. They were hovering over the area of activity— the cameraman zooming in— and Darcy could now see Steve: utterly recognizable, even from a distance, in his blue twill jacket, kneeling on the ground in surrender, arms raised in the air, as he was quickly surrounded by a swarm of men in tac gear— no fewer than two dozen assault rifles and pistols aimed at him from all sides. Other groups of men were strong-arming Natasha and Sam toward SHIELD’s version of a paddy-wagon. 

There wasn’t any footage of the Soldier; The _Masked Assassin_, as he was now officially being called by the press, had apparently ghosted with the arrival of SHIELD. 

Neither was there any sign of Jasper Sitwell. It was possible he’d died up on the bridge, in the initial collision. Darcy found herself hoping he hadn’t: that’d be too easy an end for the likes of him… 

The van was packed up with Steve, Natasha and Sam inside, and went off in a convoy of vehicles, the chopper staying on them, following their exit for a half-mile, before the network began replaying the earlier, more exciting footage. 

Someone was conducting interviews of several willing witnesses who’d been on the city bus. It made for good TV: blood-stained faces of traumatized men and women with blankets draped over their shoulders, breathlessly recounting how Captain America had come smashing through the windows of the bus, out of nowhere, and then they’d been evacuated under a hail of bullets while the so-called _Hero of New York_ had simply lay there in a pile of glass, useless… 

Darcy stood up, feeling like she needed to hit something. Everything seemed upside-down, and the feeling of helplessness was intolerable. 

She was truly alone now: all of her friends in custody. No indication of what’d happened to John. Had he been injured in the battle? Where were they taking Steve and the others? She considered calling May again, but forced herself to hold off, still not wanting to rely on that wispy thread of trust. 

She’d wait an hour… 

Forty minutes later, as she was pacing and stress-eating some toast in the kitchen, her phone lit up with a buzz— unknown number. She didn’t hesitate, scrambling to answer it, hoping it was Natasha… 

“Nat?” she said, hopefully. 

“It’s me,” came a familiar voice. 

“_Steve?_” She fumbled her toast, dropping it on the floor, and she ignored it as she stood stock-still, the adrenaline filling her limbs like acid. “Where are you?” she said. “Is Nat okay? Sam?” 

“We’re all fine,” he said. “Nat took a bullet in the shoulder, but there’s a doctor here seeing to it.” 

“Where?” she said, repeating herself as she started pacing again. “Where are you? Are you still in custody? What—” 

“No,” he said. “Safe-house. Fury’s here.” 

“What? He’s _alive?_” She stopped pacing, forgetting to breathe for a moment. 

“Yeah,” he said. “He faked it. Faked the death, so they’d think they’d succeeded. Maria bailed us out of the van, brought us here…” 

She shut her eyes, offering up a silent prayer to anyone listening, because it was one less murder that John would have to answer for, and then she asked, her voice more quiet this time: “Is it true? Was he there?” 

Steve lowered his voice too, and he sounded even more world-weary than usual. 

“Yeah,” he said. “It was him. It’s… it doesn’t look good. I don’t know if…” He sighed. “He didn’t know me. His mask fell off, and I could see him: see his whole face. I— everything stopped for a minute; I couldn’t… seein’ him like that… I said his name, and he looked right at me, but there was… he didn’t… there was nothing.” 

“Did you put the tracker on?” she said, her voice wobbling… trying to stay hopeful. Trying to ignore all those negatives. 

“Never got a chance,” he said. “It was all I could do just to stay alive. He was so fast, so strong. We’re lucky we made it out. He’s like a—” 

“Don’t say it,” she said, tears spilling over to run down her cheeks. “Don’t say he’s like a machine.” She changed the subject, not wanting to hear it. “What happened to Sitwell? Please tell me that asshole didn’t get an easy death.” 

“He got away, I guess,” said Steve. “Right at the start. Bucky, he landed right on top of the car, out of nowhere. Smashed his hand through the windshield, ripped the steering wheel right outa the car. We got out, but I didn’t see what happened to Sitwell after that. I mean it was…. it was nonstop. Just tryin’ to stay alive.” 

He said it again: “We got lucky.” There was another pause, and then he said, “I don’t know how— I don’t know if—” 

“If I could just _see_ him,” she said, pleading with him now, like he somehow held the power to make the decision. “He’d know me. I _know_ it.” 

“How are we even supposed to get you close to him?” said Steve, almost sounding angry, though she knew he was just voicing his own frustration. “He’d rip you to pieces. He’s— he’d kill you before he even got the chance to think about it.” 

She’d never heard him sound so defeated. It was scaring her. For the first time ever, she thought he might be giving up. 

“What are you gonna do,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, resisting the urge to scream at him. 

“We got a plan,” he said. “Gonna hole up here tonight— rest up and heal— but tomorrow we’re goin’ back in. We gotta stop them. Gotta keep them from launching the carriers. They’re gonna kill millions of people, Darce. _Millions_. I gotta try; I can’t— if we can survive that… maybe, then…” 

He didn’t sound hopeful, about any of it. 

“Steve,” she said. It was all she could say. 

He seemed to hear the rest of it, without her having to express it. “Hey,” he said. “I’m not givin’ up. You hear me? I know I sound… I’m not— If I see him again, if he shows up there tomorrow… tries to fight me…” 

“Tell him the words,” she said. “The ones he had on his arm. And mine, too. Nobody else would know that, right?” She knew she sounded desperate— ridiculous. “I mean, mine at least— nobody would know mine…” 

Steve had become another of only a handful of people who knew the words she bore on her skin; she’d told him during their first week in Brooklyn, almost two years ago. When she’d recited the main clause to him— ‘_There Ain’t no shortage of shit in this world_’— Steve had chuckled, shaking his head. 

“I remember that,” he’d said, in wonder. “God, I remember his ma sayin’ that to him— on more than one occasion. She’d say, ‘Ya know, Jimmy…’” He’d stopped his story, explaining: “She’s the only one called him _Jimmy_…” 

Darcy had smiled at that— seeing it in her head: some gangly little butt-chinned boy who’d grown up into her John… 

“She was a piece of work,” Steve had said, and then his face had softened. “And she woulda loved you…” He’d taken her hand, there at the little table, and she’d seen it there in his eyes: the promise he’d made— renewed through his actions, every single day: _We’re gonna find him. We’re gonna get him back_. 

Now, two years later, he renewed it once again, his voice sounding far away, but no less sincere: “I’ll try,” he said. “I swear to you.” When she didn’t reply, he said, “You remember what I said to you? The first night we met?” 

“You said a lot of things,” she said, but she knew what he was talking about. It was that pledge he’d made, like an oath— offered up not just to her, but to the whole goddamned Universe: 

_If Bucky’s still out there, ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me but death itself_. 

“Nothin’s changed,” he said. “I meant it then, and I mean it now. I ain’t givin’ up. Not ever.” 

“You promise?” she asked, her voice small, knowing she didn’t even have to ask— but she needed to hear it. Needed that reassurance. 

“Sweetheart,” he said, and she could hear the emotion in his voice now, too. “If Bucky’s there tomorrow, I’m either gonna bring him home or I’m gonna die tryin’.” 

* * *

He made good on his promise. Twelve hours later, lying on his back on a plummeting, doomed aircraft, his body bleeding and broken as his best friend beat his face in, he did what he’d sworn to do. What he _needed_ to do. He tried. 

He tried for Darcy. He tried for himself, even. But most of all, he tried for Bucky, who never deserved any of this. Had never even wanted to go to war— not like Steve. 

Steve knew he was going to die, but still he tried. 

Bucky had been there, waiting for him on the carrier. No mask this time, no pretense— even if the man himself didn’t know who he was. Steve had tried to tell him. 

“Please don’t make me do this,” he’d said, to start, because he knew if he managed to do anything in this confrontation, he had to get past Buck and put in that replacement chip. He _had_ to. Even if— _God_, even if it meant killing Bucky, and he didn’t know how he was going to ever face Darcy again, if that’s what it came to, but it was millions of innocent souls versus one or two… 

He knew what Bucky would tell him to do… 

He knew they both woulda agreed on it, if that’s what it took to save everyone else, and he didn’t hesitate: told Agent Hill to do it, once he’d managed to fight Bucky off long enough to put the last chip in. Told her to blast the three carriers out of the sky, taking him and Bucky along with them… 

But as the ship began to break apart and fall from the sky, he found he couldn’t just lie there and let it happen… 

Instinct took over, and he made his way down to where Bucky was trapped beneath a gigantic piece of fallen metalwork, wincing against the tug of the wound in his gut, where Bucky had shot him… groaned as he strained to lift the metal, trying to free him, even knowing it would just lead to more fighting, because Bucky had always been one stubborn son-of-a-bitch— even when he wasn’t brainwashed. 

“You know me,” he ground out, as soon as he’d lifted the massive strut, letting his friend slide out from under. Stumbled backward after he let it drop again, trying to catch his breath... preparing for the next round, maybe the last. He repeated it: “You _know_ me.” 

And finally, some words from the other man, even though they were a protest: 

“_No I don't_.” 

He was also struggling to get a deeper breath, to recover enough to come at him again… 

He said it again, this time with anger: “No I _don’t_…” Trying to convince him... or maybe, trying to convince himself... 

And it was so goddamned good to hear his voice, even like that— even as a lead-in to another beating… 

Bucky came at him with a renewed fury, more emotion in it now, the blows connecting with more passion when they hit, and Steve counted it as a victory: as a possibility that he was getting through to him just a little, even as both of them staggered, tumbling sideways together, gasping for breath, losing their footing as the enormous, dying aircraft fell through the sky, breaking apart as gravity pulled it down to its inevitable ruin… 

“Darcy’s here,” Steve said, panting, as he fell backward again, fighting to be heard, to get the words out. “Darcy. Your girl. I can take you to her.” He pushed himself up— swaying, stumbling, as the remains of the ship listed, tilting sideways… “Please, Buck— you gotta believe me.” 

“Shut _up!_” It was like a growl, the man forcing it out as he threw another punch. 

This one connected brutally, the force of it throwing Steve down into the broken remains of the aircraft’s undercarriage, and Bucky followed, jumping down, almost kneeling on him, and began to punch him in the face, over and over. It was a devastating assault, and that’s when Steve knew that Bucky was going to complete his mission: he was going to kill him. 

“Bucky, _stop_,” he said, forcing the words out in between punches, and he could feel his cheekbone shatter, his nose break… could taste the blood, was almost choking on it, and he knew he was almost out of time— remembered, then, what Darcy had told him to do. 

“_John Brennan_,” he said, and he was coughing… stuttering… afraid it was already too late… “_Whoa— whoa there, cowboy_…” 

Steve’s eyes were swollen almost shut, sticky with blood, and he was waiting for the next blow, maybe the one that would finish him off, but it never came… 

He tried to blink— tried to see what was happening— and he could see Bucky’s fist holding there in the air, mid-swing, hesitating, and Steve could see that somewhere inside, the man was hearing it— really hearing it— and he thought, _maybe… please, God… maybe_… 

And then Bucky spoke… 

“_What did you say_,” he whispered, and then his face contorted, angry again. “She’s not real,” he said, his chest heaving, the emotion like a raw wound, the anguish bleeding through all of his expressions. “Not _real_— how—” 

“She told me, Buck,” said Steve, and he could have cried— maybe was, through the ruin of his face… “She’s my friend,” he said. “She’s real.” He repeated it: “She’s real.” 

“It’s some kinda trick,” said Bucky, and his fist had finally lowered, his eyes now looking away, unseeing, the rest of his face contorted in despair, his expression as clear as any cry that all of it hurt— even the possibility that it was true— but Steve could hear it, there in the words: the man, beneath the programming… _wanting_ to believe it… to grab on… cling to it… even if it was a lie… 

“S’not a trick,” said Steve, and he coughed, tasting the blood that came up, rolled to his side to spit… fought to keep talking. “She told me her words… the ones you said. The thing your ma used to say— remember? ‘_Ain’t no… ain’t no shortage of shit in this world_’…” 

He coughed again and then rolled onto his back and looked up at Bucky’s face, needing to see if the man had heard him, and that’s when he saw it: saw the moment when the Soldier’s face fell completely away… 

But before Steve could say anything else— before he could say his friend’s name one more time… reassure him that it was going to be all right— an enormous piece of broken aircraft came crashing down from above, smashing through the undercarriage beside him, and then he was free-falling through the air, pieces of the ship drifting alongside him like falling leaves… and it was okay, because at least now Bucky _knew_, and Steve had hope… hope that he’d at least have a chance… 

* * *

James Buchanan Barnes watched as the man fell down through the sky amid a shower of debris… saw the impact as his body displaced the water below, and all the while the information— the memories— were flooding in too quickly, clouding the threads of truth that’d awakened him just moments ago, and he had a sensation of vertigo, of spinning inside the sickening whirl, but there was one steady truth emerging from the maelstrom— one thing he knew for certain: 

That was Steve Rogers down there. Steven Grant Rogers. His friend. 

He didn’t even think: just let go of the beam he’d been clinging to— let himself drop the rest of the way down, his body spearing the water just moments later, uncaring of the pain as he cut through the surface, and when his boots touched the bottom, twenty feet down, his found his friend there, drowning. 

It was a struggle, drawing him up through the water, the heavy metal arm pulling them both down like an anchor, but he fought against it, determined— tugging with a singular focus on the dead weight of his friend until they reached the muddy bank, where he laid him out on his back and let go. Stood back, watched his face. Made sure he was breathing. 

He was going to walk away… was going to return to base as instructed, the instinct still driving him like an automated response, though the other part of him— awakening— was already fighting it… pushing through the fog of confusion… creating new directives, and he already knew what he was going to do when he got there… 

A stuttered set of words stopped him. 

“Don’t,” said Steve, the word rough, a struggle to articulate. “Don’t go. Please.” 

He stopped, his mind still replaying the rest of it in a continuous loop: all the words this man had said to him. Kept hearing the same name in his head: _Darcy. Darcy Lewis_. The programming still telling him what to believe; what he’d learned to trust: _not real_. But there was the rest of it, too: the words… _Whoa there, cowboy. Ma always told me… whoa there… John Brennan_… over and over, and he could see his fingers, touching her skin… the words on her skin… the words he’d said to her… 

It was like being stabbed in the brain… like flashes of light, blinding, and it hurt— the programming telling him to push it away— but it was too late, because he was getting it all now: her face, her smile. The salty taste of sweat on her skin… _God_, her skin: so soft beneath the brush of his lips… 

He could hear the sound of her voice, feel her hand on his chest as his lungs filled with air… 

He remembered the desert and the base and his room in the basement, and the way that her eyes had looked when he’d filled her inside, and he understood now that they’d lied to him. 

He turned and looked back at the man lying on the bank. The man who’d been ready to let himself be beaten to death, if he could only convey that one message to him. To make him believe it. That Darcy was real. Alive. 

He sank to the ground, almost falling over in the mud, next to the barely-conscious body of his oldest friend, and still the memories were coming at him like an assault… 

He heard his friend—_Steve_… heard him cough, choking a little, bringing up some of the dirty water he’d swallowed, and Bucky spoke to him, needing to hear it again. Needing the truth said aloud, over and over, so he wouldn’t keep doubting it… 

“Say it again,” he said roughly, as he stared straight ahead— at the river filled with rubble, the sky filled with smoke from the battle they’d survived, and that was familiar too. 

He’d been here before with this man— had come through innumerable battles, finding each other at the end, bloody and bruised but always alive… 

But never before had it been like this: this time they’d been killing each other, and though he knew that Steve hadn’t truly tried to end him, it’d been different on his side. He’d tried. He’d tried, and he’d have done it, and Steve would have let him do it, and he was overwhelmed with such a deep and gutting wash of shame that he had to shut his eyes, afraid he was going to vomit, pass out… 

“She’s alive,” said a voice, and the sound of it— raspy from the river water, but still recognizable— brought him back a little, grounded him again. And then his friend must have rallied, because the next sentence was a mouthful: 

“She’s alive,” he said, “and she’s pretty… smart as a whip… an’ she’d crawl over a fuckin’ mountain of landmines to be with you, Buck.” The man coughed then, unable to say more for a good minute. 

Bucky allowed himself to look at him— to look at Steve, lying there on the ground next to him, broken and bleeding… like an angel, struck down, but still fighting for right— and he didn’t know how he deserved this man, who somehow kept finding him, kept saving him… 

The memories were almost burying him now— a torrent of images, feelings, sounds, spanning almost a hundred years… 

“Two years of searching,” said Steve, his voice getting weaker. He was fighting to stay conscious. 

Bucky felt it again, with a fresh surge of nausea: felt how close he’d come to beating his best friend to death. Had fought to. 

“Every day,” said Steve. “She never gave up.” 

There was a longer silence then, and Bucky— _that’s me: I’m Bucky_— finally filled it, his voice coming out like the whisper of a ghost… 

“What did I do… _God_, what did I do…” 

He hadn’t expected an answer, but a moment later Steve gave him one: 

“You survived.” 

He was dimly aware of Steve trying to sit up a little, fumbling for something at his utility belt— clumsy, most of his fingers broken… 

Bucky closed his eyes, and he could see her face there— _Darcy_— staring back at him, and _God_, he wanted to believe… could feel her hand on his face… and he almost shuddered from the memory of it, that anyone in this wretched world could touch him so tenderly… 

He felt Steve’s hand brush against his boot… felt it squeeze a little, like he was trying to hang on— using the contact to make his point: “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he said, and it sounded so familiar… like the echo of a conversation they’d had a million times before… but instead of finishing the the sentence, he let go… fell back, breathing heavily from the effort… 

It was a full minute before he spoke again, his voice getting weaker. “You and I are gonna— we’re gonna get patched up. Get you safe. Away from— away from all this. And then I’m gonna take you—” His voice was faltering, fading. “Take you to your girl.” 

“_My girl_,” said Bucky, like it was the most unbelievable thing in the world, even as he could see her face clearly now, in his mind… but when he turned to look at his friend— to make some kind of reply— he could see that the other man had finally succumbed to fatigue, and the severity of his injuries— had passed out cold. 

Instinct took over: without a second thought, Bucky leaned over to press his flesh fingertips against the man’s neck— panicked for a second when he couldn’t find a pulse— and then let out a breath when he pressed a little deeper, and found the thrum of life: still steady, still strong. 

“My girl,” said Bucky again, talking to himself, as he let his fingers fall away, and then he pushed himself up, his own body a shaky, stumbling landscape of hurts, his brain becoming more aware of the sensations, like he was pressing through a fog and into a sharpness, like the blade of a knife… an intensity… 

He paused to look back— took one last look at Steve— and then he trudged slowly away, legs barely supporting him, following the bank of the river… 

Ready to return to base. 

* * *

“Steve. _Steve!_” 

He came to all at once, and he was still lying there on the riverbank, and he had no sense of how much time had passed, but he knew that Bucky was gone. It was Natasha there now, crouching down by his side, and for a moment he wondered if any of it’d been real… if Bucky’d ever been there at all, had pulled him from the river… talked to him… 

Maybe he’d dreamt it… 

He heard Natasha's voice again, this time speaking to someone else, but nobody else was there... "I got him," she was saying. "I found him." 

“He’s gone,” he said, forcing the words out, drawing her attention. “Gotta— we gotta…” 

“You put the tracker on him?” asked Natasha. 

He remembered it then: the boot. He felt in the leather pocket on his belt, where he kept the tiny trackers: only two remained— one missing. 

It was real. Not a dream. He’d done it. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. You gotta…” 

“Sam’s on his way here,” said Natasha, but she shook her head, the concern an odd, uncustomary expression for her face, and he realized he must be in pretty bad shape— even for a super-soldier. 

“I don’t want to leave you here alone,” she said. 

He tried to shake his head, not caring about himself right now— needing her to know it. To prioritize… 

“Go,” he said. “Please, Natasha, just…” He breathed out, letting his eyes fall shut, but he said it again, a command this time: “_Go!_” 

She didn’t argue any more. Just nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. Pushed up, took a moment to speak into her mic, reconfirming Sam’s proximity, and then she was off… 

* * *

The Ideal Federal Savings Bank was no longer really a bank. It was owned by Hydra, the vault serving as the Winter Soldier’s home for the past year and a half. It was where they repaired him, wiped him, disciplined him. Stored him away when not in use. 

Where they’d issued the orders to kill his best friend. He remembered that, too. He was remembering a lot of things. 

The techs weren’t expecting him: parted the way for him, like the Red Sea, as he staggered in, wrecked and bleeding. He passed through without a word to any one of them, and they didn’t interfere: allowed the Asset to limp unimpeded to the vault, where Dr. Oberly and Jasper Sitwell were frantically shredding files and destroying hard drives and trying to decide where to go in the wake of what had been a disastrous turn of events. 

Oberly was voting for Europe. Maybe Switzerland. She’d had an amazing lunch there once, a hot dish of sliced veal and calves’ kidneys and sweetbreads… 

When she turned and saw him standing there, bloody and ragged and with a face like a monster, long hair loose and stringy— like a ghost from a Japanese horror film— she tried not to react. Tried to assume an aura of having expected him, even like this. 

“Soldier,” she said, irritated by the way Sitwell actually flinched and took several quick steps back. She was well aware that both of them were now trapped in the vault with Barnes, and Sitwell’s fear was filling the room like a disease… 

“Report,” she said, keeping her voice calm. Even. “Did you finish it? Where’s Rogers? Is he dead?” 

He took a moment to respond. Just breathed loudly for a few seconds, and when he finally spoke, it was quiet. Low. “No,” he said, and something in the sound of it made Oberly’s blood run cold. He began to shuffle closer, his flesh arm wrapped around his own torso, like he was holding himself together. 

Sitwell couldn’t wait any longer. “Shit,” he said, fumbling for his pistol, but the Soldier simply reached out with the metal hand and grabbed the man by his throat, picked him up, and flung him violently into the wall. Sitwell’s body connected with the solid steel and then he tumbled to the ground and didn’t move. 

Oberly was behaving more calmly, in spite of her own apprehension. Was also considering a pistol, but hers was on the desk, and it was already too far away, the Soldier’s advance blocking her access. 

“You lied to me,” he said, as he came closer, crowding her toward the rear of the vault. 

She backed up until she felt her body hit the wall. She could smell the blood on him. The sweat, the raw anger, simmering beneath the surface. But no fear. 

He was awake, she realized. He knew who he was. 

She wasn’t surprised when the hand reached out and wrapped around her neck, almost calmly, and then began to squeeze. She tried not to fight it— knew it was pointless. She’d made him. She knew there was no way out of this. 

“She’s real,” he said, and he squeezed a little bit more, the metal fingers pressing deeper into her flesh, and she held his eyes, not speaking yet. 

Oberly knew he could have snapped her neck in a split second if he’d wanted to. He didn’t want to. He apparently wanted to draw it out— to see her suffer. Well. That was no good. Maybe she could speed it up, just a little bit. She smiled. 

“You really think you can make a life?” she said, her voice like a rasp under the pressure of the hand. “With that stupid little girl?” 

It was almost arousing, the way he responded to it. The rage she could see in his eyes… the way he fought to contain it. It was like a kind of ecstasy, and she let herself enjoy it, because she knew she would be dead very shortly, one way or the other. 

“You’ll never be anything but the creature we made of you,” she said, taunting him, struggling to get the words out as his hand squeezed tighter— pressed the air out of her. “Anything human in you died at the bottom of that ravine, along with your arm. And your ridiculous words.” 

The hand got tighter, squeezing tears from her eyes— involuntary— and she was riding the wave now, staring straight back at him, enjoying this last moment with him. 

“You’ll always be mine,” she whispered, her breath getting thinner and thinner. She choked it out: “My monster.” 

And then, abruptly, the tension released and he dropped her, and she fell ungracefully to the floor, one of her high-heeled shoes coming off. She coughed and gasped, instinctively trying to suck in more air, and she felt like cursing. It’d been so perfect before. Beautiful, even. Now it was just… an ending. 

“No,” he was saying. “You’re the monster.” 

She’d already stopped listening; he’d already ruined her moment. She used her tongue to release the tiny capsule held in place behind her incisor, and bit down hard on it— almost laughed as she tasted the sharp flavor of the poison on her tongue. 

“Hail Hydra,” she said, and then she slumped back, waiting for death to take her. 

* * *

He watched while Denise Oberly shuddered, foamed at the mouth, her eyelids fluttering as her eyeballs rolled up, only the whites visible as she shook and suffered… 

It took longer than she’d probably hoped for. Her bladder released, wetting her skirt where she lay on the floor, and she let out one long, odd moan, and then finally she died. 

He was surprised in a way, to see that she’d just been a person— looking very undignified with one shoe on and one off, the sole of her exposed tan-colored panty-hose scuffed and dirty. 

He looked over to Sitwell then: the man was still crumpled in a messy heap on the floor, apparently unconscious. His glasses had fallen off, the lenses cracked. 

The rest of the vault was silent: everybody else had fled in fear. 

James Buchanan Barnes picked up the pistol on the desk. Checked to see that it was loaded, and chambered a round, and then sat down heavily on the floor. It was cool, and solid, and real. 

* * *

The vault door was still standing wide open when Natasha approached it, silently, her pistol drawn and ready, unsure what she would find. The rest of the building had been abandoned, and it was so quiet that part of her assumed she’d simply find a pile of dead bodies. She hoped Barnes’ corpse wouldn’t be among them— that he hadn’t taken his own life, though it was certainly his right to do so. 

As it turned out, there was only one dead body in the vault, and Natasha took a moment to assess it cooly as she kept another eye on Barnes, who was sitting on the cement floor, a completely blank look on his face, a pistol gripped and ready in his right hand. 

The dark-haired woman sprawled out on the floor, dead, lying in a puddle of her own piss, had a nasty purple bruise on her neck, but Natasha could see the evidence that she hadn’t been a victim of a simple strangulation. She’d seen enough of these types of deaths— Hydra and their little death-pills— to know the difference. 

Her next glance was to Jasper Sitwell, who had regained consciousness, but was sitting with his back against the wall, soaked in sweat, clearly afraid to move a muscle with the Soldier sitting between him and the only exit. He was watching Natasha— watching her hands on the pistol, then looking at her face. He probably knew she wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet in him if he so much as made the wrong kind of sound. 

“What, no capsule for you?” she said, dryly, and then, ignoring him completely, dropped in a quiet crouch next to Barnes. She’d lowered her pistol, but she hadn’t holstered it yet. 

She knew he was in there. Hearing everything. Thinking. Going through it. 

Deciding. 

She didn’t waste any time, or any words; simply told him the truth. Or what she believed, at any rate: 

“You can come back from this.” 

He didn’t respond, but she could tell by his eyes, and the way he was breathing, that he’d heard her. Understood. 

“She told me that the bond helps you remember,” she said. “It helped you before. It can again.” 

It seemed like an eternity before he answered, and she simply waited, patiently, knowing this would decide everything. 

“It already has,” he said slowly. “I already— remember.” 

She could see his fingers tighten around the grip of the pistol a couple of times, like a pulse. 

“It’s not safe,” he said. 

“For her?” said Natasha. “Or for you.” He didn’t answer, and she took a leap, nodding toward Sitwell, who was just watching them, listening. “You didn’t finish that weasel over there. Can’t say I would’ve made the same call, in your shoes.” 

He still didn’t respond. 

She decided to be blunt. “She’s not afraid of you.” 

“She should be,” he countered, quickly this time. 

“Maybe,” she said, and that did something; he finally turned his head, slowly, looking at her, his long hair falling away, and she could see the person there: the pain, behind his ancient, tired eyes. 

“Did you?” he said. “Did you… come back from it?” 

She almost flinched, because she realized then that he knew: somehow knew about her past; what she’d done. What he no doubt feared himself capable of, after what they’d done to him. Maybe they’d used her story as an example— to frighten him, when he’d still hung onto some kind of hope that he could get away… could escape and go back to his life… 

She thought about his question; tried to answer it honestly. 

“I’m working on it.” 

She saw him clench his jaw and then swallow, breathing through his nose. Again: deciding. 

She nodded her head to Sitwell again. “What should we do with this one?” 

Instead of answering her, he just said one word: “Steve.” She heard it for the question that it was. 

“Got word just a few minutes ago,” she said. “He’s at the hospital, under heavy guard. He’s safe. He’s going to be fine.” 

He shut his eyes then. “And… what about… _her_.” 

“Safe,” said Natasha. “Unharmed.” 

He let out a long breath and then opened his eyes again and looked at Sitwell. She followed his gaze. 

“You know him?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Do you?” 

“I’ve seen him… around.” 

“Darcy confirmed it, you know,” she said, trying it out— wanting to see how he’d respond to her name. She wasn’t disappointed: could see the change in his eyes— a softening, just from the sound of it. “Confirmed that this one’s rotten to the core. The gift you gave her. She can tell… she gets sick, when—” 

“I remember,” he said, closing his eyes. “She was… angry about it.” 

“She’s not angry any more,” said Natasha. “She’s been using it, to protect herself. And Steve. It’s already saved her life at least once. It’ll keep on saving her life. And yours.” 

“Thought about killin’ him,” he said, his eyes flicking to Sitwell, who was trying not to make a noise. “Killin’ him and then…” He shook his head. “Someone’s gotta pay for all this.” 

“I’m sure we can come up with something,” she said. She pushed herself up, holstered her weapon. Made sure he saw her doing it. 

“As much as I doubt there’s gonna be any kind of rescue committee for this piece of garbage, I think it would be wise to move,” she said. “Both him and us. We can drop him off with Maria. And there’s a safe place set up for you to go.” 

“Safe,” he said. “For who?” 

“For you.” 

He was still staring, unblinking. “Maria.” Another question. 

“She’s one of the good guys,” she said, and then she nodded to Sitwell. “She’ll make sure this one goes where he belongs.” 

“You know where there’s an entrance to hell on this rock?” said Barnes. 

She smiled, because it was the longest string of words he’d said so far, and it sounded so normal— almost a joke. Yeah: he was still in there, somewhere. 

“No,” she said. “But for someone like him? Close enough.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky returning to the vault after leaving Steve on the riverbank is not my original idea; it appears in a different form in the comic book _Marvel’s Captain America: Civil War Prelude_ (2016). In that telling, Bucky returns to the vault and attacks (kills?) one tech but spares the life of another after the man begs him and says that he (the tech) has children.
> 
> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  



	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this Universe the Winter Soldier did NOT kill Tony’s parents. He was in that warehouse in Kazakhstan at the time. Some other agent of Hydra handled that job, so there’s NONE of that unpleasantness to deal with here. (Hooray)

Steve was peering through the reinforced-glass viewing windows of one of Dr. Banner’s relaxation rooms at Stark Tower. One of three such rooms in the Tower, it had a dual purpose, serving as both a sanctuary, and an area of heightened durability and security— capable of being locked down, if Banner was feeling a little on the green side. Tony, with Dr. Banner’s blessing, had given them the use of the one on the ninety-first floor, for as long as they needed it: a safe place for Bucky to rest and recuperate, until they figured out what to do next. The rest of them were staying in the VIP guest suites, a few floors down. 

They’d traveled separately: Natasha had prioritized getting Bucky to safety first; she’d called in a favor from Tony, and by the time they’d reached the tiny, private airport on the edge of town, the jet had been waiting for them. 

Sam and Darcy had hung back, staying with Steve at the hospital until he was out of danger. He’d gotten the bullet removed from his gut, but it would still take some time to recover from Bucky’s beating. 

Steve had been surprised to see Darcy there, by his bedside, when he came to— almost panicked when he saw her face, worried that something bad had happened while he’d been unconscious. The last thing he remembered was sending Natasha after Bucky… 

He’d tried to sit up— to question both her and Sam, who was sitting next to her, his own— more superficial— wounds all bandaged up. 

Together, they’d assured him that Bucky was fine. Or, not _fine_, but… alive. Safe, according to Natasha. She’d found him, gained his trust, convinced him to go with her. She’d gotten him out of Washington as soon as possible, which seemed prudent. They told him the rest, as related to them by Natasha: how she’d found the dead woman in the vault, and Sitwell, still alive… 

“But why aren’t you…” Steve was searching Darcy’s eyes, confused. It hurt a little to talk, his face still tight— a mess of healing contusions. “Why—” 

“She told me…” She paused, pressed her lips together. “She asked me to be patient,” she said, and he could see that she was compartmentalizing it. Dealing with it. 

“But why are you _here?_” he said. “What if he—” 

“Steve,” she said gently, reaching out to grab his hand— squeezed it a little. “You almost died.” 

He let his head fall back, frustrated. “I ain’t dyin,” he said. “You need to go. Where’d she—” 

“They’re at the Tower,” she said. 

“You got a way to get there? You can be there in a few hours; you—” 

“I’ll take her,” said Sam. When Steve looked over at him, questioning, the man shook his head. “My life’s on hold indefinitely, anyway. People’ve seen me all over the news, flyin’ around with big metal wings… I gotta sort all that out. Figure out where I’m goin’ after all this calms down.” 

“You got a safe way to get out?” 

“Natasha,” he said, and he shook his head again. “Woman’s some kinda wizard. Set it all up, while she was in the air. Car’s waitin’ for us in the ramp here, whenever we’re ready to go.” 

“So what are you waitin’ for?” said Steve, a little irritated, and then he almost rolled his eyes. “I’ll be _fine_,” he said. “Go. Get outa here.” He looked at Darcy again, his expression more serious— had a private conversation with her, just with his eyes. 

She stood up shakily, still holding his hand, and then she leaned down to kiss his forehead. She pulled back and pressed her lips together again, and then kept her eyes steady on him as she spoke: “Promise you’ll come, as soon as you’re all better?” 

“I promise,” he said. “Now go. I can’t stand it, knowin’ you’re both safe, but you’re not there waitin’ for him when he’s ready to see you.” 

“Okay,” she said softly. She squeezed his hand one more time and then turned to go, and after a reassuring nod from Sam, they finally left his room. 

Steve let his head fall back as he shifted his body on the narrow, uncomfortable bed and then shut his eyes, letting out a long, relieved sigh… like he was finally letting it go, after two long years: all the pain… the sadness and loss and regret that he’d been feeling, every single day, since they’d brought him up out of the ice. Like he could finally breathe. 

* * *

That’d been three days ago— four days since the fall of SHIELD— long, anxious days during which Steve had fretted over the updates that Sam texted him from the Tower, describing Bucky’s rapid decline into a state of almost total withdrawal. 

He was barely speaking, Sam said. Refusing to eat. He’d rejected any kind of physical or psychological assessments— only speaking to Sam, who, with Natasha’s help, had managed to gain his trust. 

He’d refused to see Darcy— wouldn’t agree to let her in the room— and she was stubbornly supporting his choice… keeping her distance. 

After three days of that, Steve left the hospital against medical advice. He couldn’t just lie there in bed while his friends were hurting. Once again, Natasha set it all up— had a private car sent over to help spring him, taking him to that same little airport, where once again one of Stark’s jets was waiting. 

Whatever mixed feelings Steve may have had about the billionaire in the past, he could only feel humbled now, by the way the man had offered his support to both him and his friends, without question or reserve. The fact that Stark had always been wary of SHIELD’s methods and motives may have had something to do with it: he seemed eager to step in and help in the wake of the week’s revelations; whatever his reasons, the generosity was real. 

Upon his arrival at the Tower, Steve had gone straight to Darcy’s room— had dropped his bag and listened, silently, as she’d laid it all out: her rational, logical explanation for why it had to be Bucky’s sole decision, and how she was going to wait for as long as it took. 

And then, when she’d finished with her flawless, well-rehearsed speech and had crumbled right in front of his eyes, he’d held her as she’d cried. 

She’d calmed her storm, and then they’d sat in her kitchenette for a little while, just talking. She made him a sandwich and sat there watching him while he ate it, picking on him when he got a blob of mayo stuck in his beard, and he could see that it helped: the familiarity of it— the solid, unshakeable strength of their friendship, forged over two long years of chasing this future which had now come to pass, but looked like nothing they’d expected. 

When he left her room, he made a quick stop at his own suite to drop off his stuff and wash up, and then he finally headed up to see Bucky. 

* * *

He’d been standing outside the room for nearly an hour. He could see him in there on the bed, stretched out on his side, facing the wall. There was no way to know whether he was sleeping, or just lying there with open, blank eyes, staring at nothing. 

He was still in his tac gear— something Sam had left out of his reports. A tray of uneaten food sat on a small table next to the bed. 

“You sure this is the best place for him to be?” said Steve, as he stared through the window at the dark, unmoving shape of his friend. “Wouldn’t a regular guest room, with some more privacy—” 

“He approved of this setup,” said Natasha, who was standing by his side, also looking in. “And there’s a privacy screen if he wants it.” 

“Has he even looked at the controls for the room?” said Steve, too worried to care that his concern was manifesting as impatience. “Sam said he’s not eating. I bet Darcy could—” 

“He’s scared,” said Natasha. 

“But he knows, right?” said Steve, turning to look at her. “He knows she’s not afraid of—” 

“Doesn’t matter,” said Natasha, interrupting him. “It’s not about what she thinks. It’s about—” She didn’t finish what she’d started to say, and Steve’s eyebrows pinched together as he studied her profile. She wasn’t usually one to censor herself, or back away from a topic. She seemed to be making up her mind about something. 

She was a hard woman to read, but he was starting to learn… 

He knew she could feel him watching, and she finally turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were on his face, but there was something so utterly composed about her expression that it felt like a wall, pushing him back. 

“I killed mine, you know,” she said. 

He went perfectly still when she said it, fighting the instinct to duck away from the intensity of her gaze. 

“My soulmate,” she clarified, as if he hadn’t already guessed what she’d meant. She let out a short little breath and turned back, looking through the window into the room again. “Her timing for meeting me was… spectacularly unfortunate.” 

“Natasha,” he said, his voice soft, his eyes still watching her. 

She kept talking, deftly sidestepping the emotion in his response. “I think Barnes knows. I think they told him about me. Maybe showed him pictures, or video; I don’t know.” 

“But why?” said Steve, finally taking a full breath again. “He doesn’t even know you—” 

“He recognized me,” she said. “He knew me… from something other than the street fight.” 

“But why would—” 

“To put the idea in his head. That someone like him… like _us_... with that kind of… history. That he’d be capable of it.” 

Steve almost said something stupid like, _he would never_, grateful that he stopped himself at the last second— not wanting to imply that Bucky would succeed where she’d failed. He took his hand out of his pocket, feeling the instinct to reach out to her… to comfort her somehow, but he didn’t know if it’d be welcome. He let his hand fall back to his side. 

She changed the subject. 

“Maria’s been in touch with May,” she said. “Saw her a couple days ago. Apparently May’s got something in the works for them; something Coulson was starting to set up before New York… wanting to make amends, I guess. Never got a chance to deliver.” 

“What is it?” said Steve. 

“Don’t know,” she said. “Maybe a place to hide, or new identities… something more permanent. It sounds like she’s got a lot on her plate right now, but she told Maria she’d send it over when it’s ready… maybe in a few weeks, if things settle down.” 

“That’s good,” said Steve. The reply was automatic, and it sounded so empty. He was staring at Bucky again; the man hadn’t moved an inch in the hour that Steve had been standing there. He took a breath and tried again. “I’m glad they’ll have options,” he said. “But for any of that to happen, he’s gotta talk to her. Let her in.” 

“He will,” she said, and she sounded so certain that he actually believed it, even though nobody could know what Bucky was thinking. He’d shut everyone out. 

* * *

Steve waited until Bucky got out of the bed— watched him push up slowly, stand, and shuffle to the bathroom door. He disappeared inside for a time, and then reappeared, returning to the bed. He simply sat down on the edge of it this time. Stared at the other wall. 

Steve went to the door. Knocked on it a couple times and then moved back to the window, so Bucky could see it was him, but the man didn’t even turn his head. Made no sign that he’d even heard the knock. Steve hesitated for a moment, but then he went ahead and opened the door. Let himself inside. 

The air was thick in the room: heavy with the odor of unwashed human. Nothing Steve hadn’t smelled before— he and Bucky’d had plenty of days, during the war, or even before, of arguing about who smelled worse— but here, in this context, it felt different. Like a death knell. 

“Hey, Buck,” he said, keeping his voice low, trying to close his nose to the stink. There was a simple wooden chair pushed under a writing desk in the corner; he grabbed it and walked it over to the bed so he could sit closer to his friend. He turned it so they’d be facing each other, and sat himself down. 

“How you doin?” he said, feeling stupid for asking, as soon as the words left his mouth. 

Bucky looked about as bad as he smelled. His head was bowed, his eyes hollow. His beard was growing in roughly, his long hair greasy and unkempt. In the four days since they’d last seen each other, on the banks of the Potomac, he hadn’t even taken off his boots, though he’d removed his gloves and utility belt— had dumped them on the floor, in the corner of the room. 

“Might wanna think about takin’ a shower,” he said, going for a light tone. “Gettin’ pretty ripe in here.” 

Bucky still hadn’t moved— made any sign that he was even aware someone else was in the room— and Steve wondered if he should be doing this differently. Saying something else. He thought about what Sam had told him: no touching without permission, no sudden movements… take nothing for granted. 

“You okay with me bein’ in here?” he asked. “I, uh… I came as soon as I could. They didn’t let me outa the hospital ’til this morning.” 

Bucky’s lips parted, like he was going to say something, and Steve waited, but the silence stretched out between them. It occurred to Steve, too late, that maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned the hospital, seeing as how Bucky had been the one to put him there… 

He tried to fix it: “They didn’t wanna let me go, but I was feelin’ fine, so….” 

No response. He looked over at the little dresser that was near the desk; Sam had filled it with a selection of comfortable, clean clothes. A pair of sweatpants, underthings, and a hoodie were all laid out on top, like a suggestion. 

“You hungry?” he finally said, just to have something else to say. 

He glanced at the untouched food on the little table by the bed. They’d offered him bland choices: dry toast, a banana. Some kind of protein drink that Sam said they gave to starving people in refugee camps. They had no idea what kind of food he was used to, and the longer he went without anything at all, the more likely it was that he would bring up whatever he tried to get down. Natasha said it was probable he was also withdrawing from drugs: it was another unknown. 

He hadn’t even touched the bottled water, but Steve knew he may have been getting water from the tap in the bathroom. “I can get you somethin’ different, if you want…” 

“What,” said Bucky, out of nowhere, startling him. His voice was low— scratchy, from disuse. 

Steve was about to repeat what he’d said, when Bucky spoke again, and it became clear that the word hadn’t been a standalone question, but rather the start of a longer sentence. 

“What’s she gonna think,” he said, and then he breathed out, taking a break, before finishing: “…think of me like this.” 

“Like what?” he said. 

Bucky finally tipped his head up a little to look at him, and Steve could see it: just a tiny glimmer of his old friend in there, behind all the pain and fatigue— an echo of the man who, in the past, would have rolled his eyes and said, _what do you think, dumbass_. It would have been invisible to anyone else, but Steve saw it— just that tiny bit of sass— and it was so beautiful it almost made his eyes sting. 

He thought about what Bucky was asking— what he seemed to be implying. “She’s not stupid,” he said. 

“I know that,” said Bucky. They were both quiet for another minute and then he added, “You think I—” He broke up the sentence again, like making it all the way through that many words in one go was too tiring. “Think I don’t know that?” 

“The stuff you’re worried about,” said Steve, leaning forward a little, resting his forearms on his thighs, “It’s not you. It’s not who you are.” 

Bucky just shook his head slowly, looking down again, like he was disappointed. Like Steve really was a dumbass. A simpleton. “But it is,” he said, his voice soft. “Or… it was.” His mouth was open, his breathing audible. “I did it,” he said, and then he licked his parched lips. “I did all of it.” 

“You sayin’ you remember—” 

“I remember everything,” said Bucky, and then he lay back down on the bed, rolling his body so that he was facing away. 

Steve sat in the chair for another five minutes, waiting to see if Bucky would say more, but he just lay there, breathing, and finally Steve pushed up and cleared his throat and said, “I, uh… I’ll let you get some rest. I’ll come back again in a while, okay?” 

There was no reply— not that he’d expected one, and Steve was glad that the corridor outside the room was empty when he let himself out and shut the door, because he already knew he was gonna cry, and he wasn’t in the mood to hide it for anyone else’s comfort. 

* * *

He had dinner with Darcy, during which he felt like a failure for not being able to give her better news. It was unbearable, seeing them electively stay apart after all the time she’d spent trying to find him. Part of him hoped she’d just decide for both of them— make the choice and bust in there, let him see her. Hear her voice. But she was his mate, through-and-through: just as stubborn as Bucky— determined to respect his wishes, even if it broke her heart… 

He left Bucky alone for the rest of the night, but he went to see him again the next morning. The room was exactly the same as he’d left it: Bucky still lying on his side, his back to the chair. The food was still untouched, the air as sour and heavy as before. He had to resist the urge to go right up to him: to shake the man with his hands, to yell at him to stop being so pig-headed. 

He realized he was angry about it. Bucky still had his mate. She was _right there_, waiting. He at least had a _chance_— something that Steve… Sam…_God_, even Natasha… something they’d all lost, never to regain. 

He knew it wasn’t fair— that he couldn’t even conceive of the hell that Bucky had been through, or what it was going to take for him to heal— but it was still infuriating, because he knew, as well as he knew anything in this life, that letting Darcy in could only make things better. 

He said none of that— simply went back over to the chair. Sat down and leaned forward, again resting his forearms on his thighs. Tried to inhabit the simple gratitude he felt for being able to have even this: the privilege of sitting in a room with the friend he’d mourned as dead. Patience shouldn’t have been so much to ask. 

Steve Rogers had never been very good with patience. 

“Saw Darcy,” he said, speaking to Bucky’s back. “Just had breakfast with her. She told me a joke; you wanna hear it?” 

There was no response, and he barreled on: determined to sit there and talk, and talk, and talk… to tell him everything he knew about his friend Darcy, until Bucky pulled his head out of his ass and either agreed to see her, or told him to shut up, which was _not_ what Sam had advised him to do, but _fuck it_. 

“A man walks into a bar,” he began, but before he could get any further, there was a rustling, and he looked up from his hands to see that Bucky was rolling over in the bed to face him. He tried not to respond to how bad he looked— Steve didn’t know how he could look so much worse after just a handful of hours, but he did. He looked like he was decaying. 

“She tell you,” said Bucky, his voice raspy and dry, and then he paused again, just like before: taking a break, partway through… shifted his body on the bed so that he was fully on his other side. “About the last time I saw her?” 

Steve didn’t know how to answer. Darcy had told him a lot about that day, and he didn’t know which part Bucky meant. 

Bucky was facing Steve, but he wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were seeing something else— something in his own mind. “Last time I was… in a room with her,” he said, and then stopped to breathe. “I blew some guy’s brains out,” he finished. He waited a few seconds, and then added, “Right in front of her face.” 

Steve didn’t know what to say. Darcy had told him about that: how much it’d hurt to see him do that, even though the man who’d been killed wouldn’t have won any humanitarian awards… 

“They told me to shoot her too,” said Bucky. “And I woulda.” His eyes were still far away. “Just didn’t get the chance…” 

Steve looked down at his hands again— fidgeted with his fingers— and then looked up at his friend. “She wants to see you,” he said. “But she wants it to be your choice.” 

There was a much longer silence then, and Steve did his best to wait it out. 

“I don’t,” started Bucky, after a time, and it sounded like each word was a struggle now— like he was warring with two opposing urges: to speak his mind, or to lock it all away… “Don’t know what to do,” he said. “I wanna—” He shut his eyes, clenched his teeth together for a moment and then released. “I wanna see her so bad.” 

Steve let out a long breath— unable to fight the relief he was feeling, to hear it. He hadn’t been sure… 

“S’all I can think about,” said Bucky, “when I’m not just goin’ around and around, with all the…” He drifted off, and was quiet again. 

“She can help,” said Steve. “If you let her.” 

Bucky was still quiet— no response to that. 

“She doesn’t wanna put any pressure on you,” said Steve. “That’s how much—” He didn’t know how to say it: how to convey to Bucky how much love he’d seen in that girl for the past two years. The devotion. “She ain’t gonna change her mind.” 

He sighed again. “If you ask her to stay away, I swear to God she’ll do it, but—” 

He didn’t know what else to say. Didn’t know what he _should_ say. Sam had given him all kinds of advice and suggestions, but at this point, most of it’d gone out the window. He was trusting his instincts. He knew what Bucky needed. He needed his girl. 

Bucky was still just lying there, not responding to Steve’s words, but there were tears leaking out of his eyes now, like the man was just utterly exhausted, and it broke Steve’s heart— especially when he knew that everything Bucky needed to heal was three floors down, just waiting for the green light. 

* * *

Two more days passed. Steve was looking in through the window again. Still no change, though Bucky had finally taken off his boots. He hadn’t had any socks on underneath, and Steve had winced to see the open sores on his bare feet, even though he know the serum would heal them rapidly now that the boots were off. 

“He eat anything yet?” said Sam, who’d come up beside him. 

“No,” said Steve. He waited a minute, to see if Sam was going to say anything else, and then he made up his mind and said it: “I’m gonna get her.” 

“Steve.” 

“Look, I just—” He shut his eyes for a minute, not wanting to argue about it— wishing someone would just agree with him. “If he could just— I dunno, smell her. Hear her voice for a minute, or… I mean— you know how it is, just as well as I do.” 

It felt like a cheap shot, bringing up Riley, even indirectly, but he couldn’t help it. “I know you remember.” 

“I do,” said Sam. “Which is why I been holdin’ off, because in a way it takes the man’s choice away.” 

Steve had nothing to say to that. He knew Sam was right. And yet— 

“He wants to be with her,” said Steve, pressing his point. “I know it. He’s said as much, straight out. He’s just scared. Scared she won’t want him, once she sees… or that he’ll hurt her. God’s sake, Sam— he hasn’t eaten in a week. He’s gonna waste away.” 

“Guys like you even capable of that?” said Sam, even though he already knew the answer. 

“Yeah,” said Steve, saying it anyway. “Just take a lot longer. Draw out the suffering.” 

“You think he’s punishing himself?” said Sam. “Deliberately?” 

“Don’t you?” 

Sam pressed his lips together, considering it. “Maybe. Might not be that intentional. Could just be this is how it looks when a super-soldier’s goin’ into one hell of a major depressive episode. And after what the man’s been through, it ain’t at all surprising.” 

Steve thought back to the way he’d been at that cabin, up north, lying on the couch, opening and shutting the compass, over and over, day in and and day out, only rising to heat a can of soup… 

“Don’t mean we should just stand here and watch it happen,” argued Steve. “Not when there’s medicine right here.” 

Sam sighed, crossed his arms over his chest as he stared through the window at the unmoving shape of Barnes. Everyone was looking to Sam for advice, because of his work at the V.A.— his experience working with soldiers experiencing PTSD— but he was out of his depth here, big time; he’d spent most of the past week online, researching care for victims of torture, prisoners of war. He felt hopelessly ill-equipped to help a man like Barnes. 

Letting Darcy take care of him would likely be the best thing for him— even the professionals would agree on that; there were numerous case studies on the accelerated healing in victims of trauma, when a soulmate was available to help— but he’d hoped the man would at least be on board with it. 

“Let’s give it another day,” he said. “If he’s still like this at the end of the day tomorrow…” 

* * *

Sam took his time going over the guidelines again, just as he had with Steve: Take it slow. Real slow. In every sense of the word. Not too much talking, unless he invited it. Follow his cues in everything. No touching whatsoever, without asking first. Take nothing for granted. 

They’d covered it all before, but she still doubted whether she could stick to it. She had a feeling she’d get in there— see him, finally, in the flesh— and just be… Darcy. 

She’d been dead-set on waiting, as long as it took— she couldn’t be just one more person taking his choices away— but Steve and Sam had made a strong case for a trial visit, hoping that she could at least persuade him to eat something. They didn’t want to have to drug him or poke him with needles, just to keep him nourished. When they’d put it in those terms— when she’d visualized what that scenario would look like— she’d finally agreed. 

“You want me to go in with you?” asked Steve. 

She shook her head. “He won’t hurt me.” She glanced at the large window, which stretched down the length of the room. “But is there some way— I mean… do we have to have everyone watching us, while we…” 

She trailed off, realizing it’d sounded like she was planning to jump him. She hoped they knew that was the furthest thing from her mind. 

She didn’t know the right word for it. _Reunite_ didn’t seem like a strong enough word for what was about to happen. After the way they’d been ripped apart, and then two long years of separation, and all the pain he’d been through… 

No; _reunite_ didn’t even come close. But whatever it was, it was private. 

Sam understood her meaning, and he said, “Course not,” and he moved to access the environmental settings on the room’s exterior control panel— showed her how to enable the privacy screen; told her there were identical controls inside. 

“He knows I’m coming, right?” she said. “You told him?” 

“Yeah,” said Steve. “He knows. I think— I got the feeling he was relieved… that we finally just made the decision.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “He wants this.” 

“I think he needs to see for himself,” added Sam. “That you’re not afraid. And that he doesn’t have to be afraid of himself, when he’s with you. And he can’t find out any of that just by thinkin’ about it for another three weeks.” 

“Yeah,” she said, and then blew out one more nervous breath. “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready.” 

“You call us, if you need anything,” said Sam, and then he nodded to Steve, and they backed away, leaving her to it. 

* * *

She couldn’t look at him; not yet. 

She’d knocked on the door— just a light series of taps; he had to have known it was her. She opened the door and went in, her eyes telling her, without looking directly at him, that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her. She turned around quickly and shut the door, trying not to grimace as the smell hit her. 

The guys had warned her that Bucky hadn’t showered in a week, or even taken off his uniform, but she hadn’t really been prepared for how bad it was: sour, with an undertone of soil and rotten onions. She was reminded of the homeless lady who used to beg for cigarettes outside the bodega in Brooklyn— a sweet woman, but whose stink was so bad that it was hard to be in her presence for more than a few seconds. It was the smell of decay— of old skin gone rancid— the kind of smell you instinctively held your breath around, until you’d gotten by. 

There was no getting by it here; it’d filled the room, trapped in there with the man who’d made it. 

And yet… there was a certain, recognizable note beneath it all, something that drew her in: a memory she could feel, like the idea of a flavor— an echo of that scent she’d wanted to bathe in, the night she’d gone to him in the basement, in a frenzy of need. It was indescribable, but uniquely _him_, and her soul reached out for it, wanting to grab on… 

She shut her eyes, breathing through her mouth for a few seconds, trying to steady herself. Opened them again, and looked at the long window, the hallway outside still visible through it. 

“I, um… I’m gonna lower the virtual blinds,” she said. 

Her voice sounded small and stupid. She couldn’t believe it was the first thing out of her mouth— the first thing she’d said to her soulmate, after two years of forced separation. 

He didn’t respond. 

She pressed the buttons and watched the system process the request, tinting the window to an opaque grey without lowering the ambient light in the room. She set her phone down on the desk, took one more deep breath in through her mouth, and then finally turned so she could see him. 

He was still sitting there, his back to her, unmoving. His clothing— his Hydra uniform— was so scuffed-up and filthy that it looked more grey than black. The left side of his jacket was sleeveless, and she could see the shiny silver metal of the massive prosthesis that his captors had replaced his other system with. Unlike the one he’d had before— the one with the little metal rod— this one seemed to go all the way up to and beyond his shoulder joint. 

She wondered if they’d removed the remainder of his healthy tissue on that side, and she felt a surge of anger. Just as quickly, she tried to tamp it down. She didn’t want to come at him like that— from a place of fury and bitterness. 

His hair was so long. Down to his shoulders. Greasy, stringy and sad. 

She realized she’d frozen— didn’t know how long she’d just been standing there, staring at his back— and it almost made her flinch when he spoke, though his voice was quiet… gentle. 

“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said. 

And though it’d been soft— the sound of it— it still hit her like a shock wave. No matter how many times she’d tried to hear it in her head the past two years— replaying all the things he’d said to her, in their short time together… trying to remember everything… 

The _sound_ of him: it was the thing that’d been missing, something hard for memory to capture. 

It wrapped around her now, like a layer of comfort, and she leaned into it internally, almost swaying inside… 

She needed to answer him: to let him know she wasn’t scared. 

“I know,” she said, and she took another step toward him— waiting to see if he was going to look at her. He seemed to be frozen too— she couldn’t even tell he was breathing. 

He wasn’t going to turn around. 

“I’m… I’m gonna come over there,” she said, wanting to warn him. Like Sam said: not taking anything for granted. 

She took a few more careful steps forward, toward the bed, and then moved around the end of it— past him in profile— and then came around to the other side, where there was a wooden chair set up, facing the bed. 

His head was bowed, his eyes aimed at the floor. Now that she was closer, she could see that he was breathing shallowly. His hair was hanging in his face, hiding his eyes from her, but she could see that he was sweaty. Unshaven. The odor of his body was much stronger now, but she was starting to get used to it. 

She could see how tense he was, and she hated that she was making him feel that way. It should have been the opposite. 

She ignored the chair, choosing to slowly kneel down on the floor instead, a few feet away— making herself smaller, non-threatening. Tried to hide the way her hands were shaking. 

She didn’t know what to say. It was surreal, being this close to him, after all this time… she had the urge to reach out and touch his leg, just to prove to herself that he was real. 

It was excruciating, keeping herself apart from him— just a few feet of air between them— searching for careful words to offer, when all she wanted to do was climb into his lap, lay hands on him… push the hair out of his face and kiss him, breathe him in deeply— stink and all… show him that she was never gonna let anyone hurt him, ever again… 

The silence stretched out, and she finally broke it, remembering why she was there; why the guys had convinced her to ignore his wish to be alone. 

“They said you haven’t been eating.” 

He didn’t respond, and she elaborated: “Are you… aren’t you hungry? You gotta be hungry.” 

It just burst out of her then; she couldn’t stop it: “I missed you,” she said, and her breath hitched a little at the end, swallowing down a sob. “I missed you so much…” 

He was still breathing shallowly, like he was trying to control it, and she could see through the narrow gap in his hair that his lips were parted… could see the dark line of his beard running through the cleft of his chin, and she remembered what it’d felt like, to drag her thumb down the little dent… could remember how his lips felt when she kissed him… the sounds he’d made into her mouth… 

“Do you… do you remember me?” she said, hating that she’d asked— for being so needy, when he was the one in need. 

She didn’t think he was going to answer her. He hadn’t made a sound since he’d told her what she already knew: that he wasn’t a threat. She was craving it— needing to hear his voice again, now that she’d gotten that taste. 

Maybe it was too much. Maybe she should go— leave him alone… try again later… 

She was about to suggest it, when he took a breath and began to speak, his face still hidden behind the curtain of hair… 

“I remember everything,” he said, softly, and it was even more intense, hearing his voice so close to her now, and she shut her eyes instinctively and just listened… let the low rumble of it run over her like water… 

“I remember my ma… my sister, Becca…” 

She heard him take a breath, and continue… 

“Remember fallin’ down the stairs at my Nana’s walk-up, and how my pop yelled at me for it, ‘cause I broke my arm…” 

Another breath… 

“Remember him smackin’ the shit out of me ‘cause I took too long comin’ back with his newspaper… or his cigarettes… or any reason at all…”’ 

“Remember meetin’ Stevie… goin’ to Coney…” 

“Dancin’… holdin’ hands with girls, spinnin’ 'em around on a crowded floor…” 

“First time I kissed a girl, feelin’ like everything inside was gonna bust out all at once…” 

She’d opened her eyes again, watching him while he spoke. She still couldn’t see his eyes, but she could see his lips moving, making the words. She was almost holding her breath, afraid the slightest movement or sound might scare him back into silence… 

“I remember… bein’ overseas. Fightin’. Shiverin’. Bein’ cold.” 

“Fallin’… Stevie’s voice, callin’ after me… knowin’ I was gonna die…” 

“Remember the rest o’ my arm bein’ sawed off while I was strapped to a table, screamin’ ’til I passed out…” 

“Remember killin’ people.” 

There was a long pause after that one. 

She could see his hand— the flesh one— squeezing the sheets on the bed next to him, as though he were trying to bleed all of the tension out his body and into the bunched-up fabric, and she stared at it as he went on… 

“I remember sayin’ your words,” he said. “Bein’ with you. In the desert. On the bike…” 

He let out a breath. “In my bed.” 

When she looked at his face again, she could tell he was staring at her, through the strings of dirty hair. 

She waited, her chest tight… like a dam, struggling to hold back all the emotions, all the words that wanted to break through… 

“They told me you weren’t real.” His voice broke a little. “Made me believe it.” And then he whispered it, like he was talking only to himself: “_Why the fuck did I believe it_…” 

She needed to get closer. See his face. Touch him. She was already sitting up, fighting the urge to reach out… 

“Can I—” She didn’t even know what to ask for. 

“Prolly don’t want— I mean—” 

He was stuttering, and it wasn’t so different from how he’d been before, in the desert… struggling to make the words come together, to match whatever he was hearing in his head, wanting to say… 

“Steve,” he said. “He, uh… he mighta suggested I got the aroma of a barnyard full o’ week-old horse-shit…” 

She hiccuped out a choked laugh, even as a couple of tears finally leaked out, and she moved in a little bit closer, shuffling toward the bed on her knees. “He said that?” she asked, not being able to picture it. 

“Not in so many words,” he said. “I think he… he said I was… ‘_gettin’ ripe_.” 

“Yeah, that sounds more like him,” she said. She wondered if he thought it was weird, that she and Steve had become good friends— if he even realized. “Can I— you want some help with that? Getting cleaned up?” 

“Don’t know why I can’t… I don’t—” 

“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to explain.” She blew out a slow breath. “Can I… is it all right if I come up there? Sit by you?” 

He didn’t say _no_, so she got up, carefully, forcing herself to do everything slowly, just like Sam said. Went to the edge of the bed and sat down, just as slowly, about a foot away from him, feeling like even the dip of the mattress under her weight was far too much, too soon. 

The movement of the mattress stirred the air around him and she got another full whiff of stink, and she pressed her lips together and swallowed, trying not to react to it, but he picked up on it anyway. 

“Told you,” he said, and it was almost funny, but then he said, “M’sorry,” and he sounded so sad. His hair was still hiding his face, and she longed to tuck it back so she could see him, but she was aware that he might be grateful for the security of it right now— the option to shield himself from anyone’s gaze. Even hers. 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she said. “But can I help you? Can I— can we take some of this stuff off? It can’t be comfortable… maybe you could take a shower, or—” 

She knew it was a lot: asking him to let her put hands on him, when he could barely even deal with her being there. 

To her surprise, he said, “Yeah.” He repeated it: “Yeah. Can you— I don’t…” 

“Here,” she said, and she reached out, almost just going for it, about to start tugging on his dirty clothes, and then she stopped herself, pulled her hands back— reminded herself, _again_, what Sam had said— how important it was. “Is it okay if I touch your shoulder? If I—” 

“Yeah,” he said. “Just do it. I want it off.” He breathed out, long. "I want all of it off; I want—" 

She tried not to make a big deal out of the mechanics of it: just moved her hands in carefully, trying to figure out what she could take off first, and as she got to work, he lapsed back into silence again, almost as though that explosion of language before— all that communication— had been her imagination… 

There was some kind of harness around his chest which seemed to be the outermost layer, so she started with that. She worked slowly, telegraphing every movement, trying to touch the gear rather than his body. 

The harness wasn’t too hard to figure out: it had some obvious buckles she could undo, and then it was a simple matter of threading it off his arms. She got it all the way off and set it aside, and then moved on to the vest, which proved to be a bit more frustrating. 

She was getting annoyed by all the buckles and straps, the system seeming needlessly complex. She was getting a little more aggressive— starting to break the rules that Sam had laid out for her, making his body sway as she tugged on the side straps, trying to get them undone. 

He didn’t seem to mind; in fact he cooperated silently with everything she did, like he was used to being maneuvered. She hated the ramifications of that, but tried to focus on the positive of finally getting him out of the dirty clothes so that he could wash up— grateful that he was letting her do it. 

If she _could_ do it; the damn vest wouldn’t come off. 

“What the fuck is this?” she complained abruptly, giving up for a second. “God, I just wanna get all this Hydra shit off.” She didn’t want any of their fascist garbage touching him for one minute longer than it needed to, now that he was letting her help him. 

“God _dammit_.” 

“You okay?” he said, her open frustration finally breaking him out of his daze, and when he turned to look at her, his hair fell away from his face, and she finally got her first full look at him… 

For a few seconds, everything stopped… 

She could see his eyes, his face so close… and she _remembered_ those circles of blue with the darker outline— knew them like they’d been living inside her soul, though her memory of them had been incomplete. 

All the pictures of him she’d clung to, every day, for two long years, had been old: colorless, black-and-white. Though she’d gazed at those eyes for untold hours— had memorized every detail— seeing them now, in person, was… 

It was like that moment in _The Wizard of Oz_, when Dorothy stepped out of her little, broken house, and then stopped short, reflecting the impact on the audience as the entire world bloomed with the unexpected breath of full color, vibrant and glorious and _alive_, and all she could do was stare in wonder… 

“Oh my God,” she said, whispering it, unable to be any more articulate… 

She didn’t know how to cope with the feeling; it was too big—too intense— and there was no way she could obey Sam’s rules… to fall back to the limitations of concepts like _appropriateness_ and _restraint_. 

And yet… 

He was almost there with her… _almost_… but there was still something in him that just looked… terrified. 

She forced herself to reel it back— all the things she wanted to say and do— 

She tore her gaze away, returning her attention to the task— let the moment pass. 

“I— I just gotta get this thing off,” she said. 

Her hands were shaking, and she was swallowing down the tears that were trying to sting their way out of her eyes, as she tried to focus on the vest, aware that he was watching her now. 

She took her time, following the straps around, one by one with her fingers, and figured it out— it actually hadn’t been that complicated; it’d just been so overwhelming to be that close to him, that she’d been going about it all wrong. 

She lifted the heavy garment off and away, and then stood up on shaky legs and took it, together with the harness, and delivered them to the pile of stuff he’d already tossed in the corner, dropping them there like they were full of disease. 

“We’re gonna burn all this stuff when we’re done,” she said. 

He made a noise— something she realized would have been a snicker, if he’d been capable of it, but came out more like a little puff of air— but she treated it as though it’d been the real deal. 

“You think I’m kidding?” she said. She sat down again, to work on the next layer, which was a black jacket, one of the sleeves cut off to accommodate the prosthesis. 

“I bet Stark would let us do it,” she said. “Take all this shit up to the roof and set it on fire in a barrel or something. He’s weird like that.” 

It was quiet again for a while, as she unzipped the jacket and helped him get it off. He was starting to participate a little more— the motions she was putting him through maybe jump-starting his instincts— though his movements were awkward and shaky, his limbs moving slowly. 

He spoke up again, as she walked the jacket over to the discard pile: “I knew his pop.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “He made Steve’s shield.” 

“Oh, right.” 

It was odd, the little exchange: almost like chit-chat. Polite. Filling up the space with simple ideas they could express as they got used to each other again, instead of going right for the elephant in the room— the truth that she wanted to scream until every living being on the planet heard her claim: the depths of her desperate, needful love for him, the fierce protectiveness that promised to bury everything in their way… 

But it was fine, like this. It was showing them a path… a way forward… 

She was still standing, and she looked him over, to see what was left. 

He was just in a base-layer shirt now, also altered to be one-sleeved, and his dirty tactical pants. She figured she should leave the rest to him, not wanting to get too familiar so soon. 

“Do you wanna… can you get your pants? Or do you want me to—” 

“Are we gonna take a shower?” he asked. 

She was surprised— hadn’t expected that word: ‘_we_’. But she didn't want to make any assumptions. “You want me to… should I go in with you? Would that help?” 

It took him a while to answer, like he had to think about it. “Don’t know,” he said. 

She kept her voice neutral; tried to normalize it. “You want me to go start the water?” 

“Okay.” 

* * *

The shower stall was… intimidating: even more complicated than her own suite’s ‘rich person’ shower panel. This one must have been chosen to cater to Banner’s needs, and featured both a hand-held shower-wand and an overhead rainfall shower, with what looked to be about a hundred individualized nozzles, and eight body-spray pods going down the wall in a four-by-two array, like giant metallic nipples. There was a little shelf cut into the stone wall, with some fancy bath products sitting on it: shampoo, body wash, and some individually-wrapped luxury soaps. 

She turned on the water and selected the overhead rainfall shower, waited for the temperature to rise. Tested it with her hand to make sure it was comfortable. 

When she returned to the main room, he was still just sitting there— hadn’t gotten anywhere with the pants. 

“Can you stand up?” she said. “Are you—” 

He pushed up slowly. He was a little shaky, and he put a hand out, finding his balance, almost teetering for a second. 

“Fuck,” she said, alarmed by how unsteady he was. “We’re gonna get some food into you after this, okay?” 

“Okay,” he said. 

He seemed uncertain— dizzy, maybe— and she moved in close, took a breath and just went for it, carefully wrapping one arm around his waist. She’d forgotten to ask permission first, but he seemed okay with it, even as her own heart began to pound from the flood of sensation… the immediate comfort she got from the feel of his body: warm and solid and real. 

She hoped he was feeling it too— that the bond was giving him the same comfort— but he just seemed dazed… weak. 

“Here we go,” she said, steering them toward the bathroom, which was already beginning to fill with steam. 

She stopped them in front of the shower, and tugged up on the hem of his base-layer shirt, encouraging him to take over once it was too high for her to reach. 

He complied, pulling it off and letting it drop to the floor, and then he was shirtless before her, and she finally saw the brutality of it: the enormous, crude and careless seam that ran up in a thick, ragged line from his armpit to his shoulder, cutting partway into his pectoral muscle— much further in than she’d realized. Everything from the line over, including his entire shoulder, and going all the way down to his fingertips, was synthetic: shiny silver metal. 

Though she’d already seen most of it, with the cutaway clothing, it was something else entirely to see it like this: to see how that fearsome-looking thing was truly a part of him. A weapon, permanently fused to his body. 

“Oh, fuck,” she said, breathing it out, unable to censor herself as she took it in, her hand reaching out and then pulling back before she could instinctively touch it. “_Fuck_,” she said again, emphatically. “What— _God_… what did they do to you…” 

She’d never meant to say it like that. To shame him with her outrage, which he could have misinterpreted as aversion, even disgust. And it would be accurate, in a way: she _was_ disgusted. That they’d taken him, cut into him— thrown away whole pieces of him. Used his body like a paper doll: theirs to fashion into whatever they needed him to be. 

“God _dammit_,” she said, and the tears were coming for real this time, and she swiped at them angrily, and she desperately wanted to wrap her arms around him— to hold him. 

“God,” she said again, completely overwhelmed, but unable to tear her eyes away from it… “Baby…” 

She knew she was fucking this up. She shouldn’t be reacting like this. Shock and horror— at his _body_. Fuck, she needed to stop. To do better… she needed to— 

“Say it again,” he said, softly. 

“What?” she said, looking up at his face, but his eyes were closed; she couldn’t read him… “I don’t—” 

“Say it again,” he repeated, and he sounded so desperate, and she sifted through her own words, trying to figure out… 

_Oh_… 

She said it again— softly this time: 

“_Baby_…” 

She could see his chest rising and falling, his face struggling through some emotion, and she risked it, giving into her instincts: lay one shaking palm carefully against his chest— right in the middle, next to his heart. 

She could feel him responding to it: to the words, to her touch— some tiny measure of him relaxing... 

He let out a soft sigh, and something in her unfurled… 

She knew she shouldn’t— that it was already too much— but she couldn’t stop herself, her feet shuffling closer so she could lean into him, just a little, her hand still resting flat against his skin, and she could feel the thump of his heart, the movement of air through his body as his lungs emptied and filled, and she was lifting her other hand, laying it carefully on his side, wanting to go further— to feel his skin… wrap her arms around him and hold him, to run her lips against him, to clutch at and cling to him and tell him how much she loved him… she could feel herself moving in even closer... almost start to crowd him... 

And maybe he could feel some of that desperate need reaching out for him— something almost aggressive about it— and when her fingers curled into his hip he tensed, shivering just a little, his chest caving away from her other hand, his head dropping down and to the side, the whisper of a sound in his exhale, and she read all that: the subtlety of his retreat. 

She made herself stop, let go... drew herself back, watching his face, which was bowed again… fought the tug of her own need so that she could respect the limit he’d just communicated… 

“Let’s, um…let’s get you in there,” she said, trying to make it okay: to silence the part of her that was still screaming for more… to let him know that she was going to follow his cues in this, no matter what. 

She checked in, every step of the way, as she got the rest of it off, worried about the way he'd gone silent again, but he managed to give her little signs that he was okay, letting her move him around carefully as she got the rest of his clothes off. 

The tac pants were disgusting, and she had to breathe through her mouth again as she popped the button and pulled down the zipper. Tugged the fabric down his hips as gently as she could. Got the grubby, plain-white briefs off as well, and helped him step out, his legs shaking… 

Once he was bare— nothing even remotely sexual about it— she opened the shower door and guided him inside, into the steam-filled stall… made sure he was steady, and then shut the door to give him the idea of privacy, though the fancy glass walls didn’t hide much, even with the steam. 

She waited, watching and listening to see if he would start washing, but it looked like he was just standing there, unmoving. 

“Are you— do you want help?” she said, pitching her voice higher so that he could hear her. 

No answer. 

“John? Are you okay?” 

Still no answer. 

“Do you want me to come in?” 

She made the decision, quickly toeing off her shoes and stripping off all of her clothes. “I’m coming in,” she said, and then she opened the door and stepped inside. 

He was leaning against one of the walls, already flush from the heat, his eyes shut as he let the stray drops of water pelt him. His wet hair was sticking to his face, and she could see how gaunt he was now— his cheekbones more prominent. He must’ve had dried blood on him somewhere— on his skin, or in his hair— because the water was running a little pink on the floor of the shower. 

“You okay?” she said. She had her arms pressed against her chest, unsure if her nudity was going to make him more uncomfortable. “Are you… do you need to get out? Should we stop?” 

He shook his head slightly and then managed to get a word out: 

“No,” he said. 

“No, you’re not okay? Or…” 

“I can do it,” he said. “Just—” 

“Let’s get your hair first,” she said. She grabbed the shampoo, uncapped it and squeezed some into her palm. She moved around to his side, paused to ask: “Can I— my hands are gonna get close to your face; is that okay?” 

“Yeah,” he said, almost whispering it. He was still leaning against the glass, his eyes shut. 

“All right,” she said. “Lean your head back a little, okay? I don’t wanna get soap in your eyes.” 

She had to stretch a bit to reach, and she kept her left arm pressed against her breasts, holding them in so she wouldn’t brush against him without warning. She got the shampoo onto the crown of his head and did a half-assed job of massaging it in, and then pulled her fingers down through the long strands of his hair, trying to ignore the way the bond wanted to pull her closer— made her want to wrap herself around him, bury her nose into his bare skin, feel every inch of him with her hands… 

She needed to focus— needed to hurry it up so he could get out of there, sit back down. 

“Keep your eyes shut,” she said. “I’m gonna rinse you off. Can you— are you okay to stand under the water?” She put her hands on his waist— cursing inwardly when she again forgot to ask first— but he let her guide him away from the wall to stand under the shower-head. 

“Tilt your head back again,” she said. “Yeah, that’s good.” 

She reached up again with her hand to help the water rinse out all the suds— got as much of it out as she could. 

“We’re almost done,” she said. “Can you— do you wanna wash the rest of you, or…” 

He didn’t answer, so she said, “Step back a little,” and when he did, getting out from under the direct fall of the spray, she said, “Give me your hand.” 

He did what she said— lifted his hand a little— and she turned it so that his palm was up, and squeezed some of the liquid soap into it, the spicy-citrusy smell bursting between them. She used her own hand to help lather it up, and then moved it to his midsection— encouraged him to take over. 

“You got it?” she asked, though he was barely moving his hand, and then her eyes went to the prosthesis, which he hadn’t used since they’d gotten into the shower. It occurred to her that maybe it wasn’t supposed to get soaked like this. 

“Is it okay?” she asked. “The arm? In the water? Should we be… should we not be getting it this wet?” 

“Don’t care,” he said. “It ain’t mine.” His flesh hand had dropped back to his side. 

“You all done?” she asked. He’d barely soaped up any of his body, but she didn’t want to push it. It was good enough for now; just the rinse was going to make a huge difference. “Why don’t you rinse off one more time…” Once again she put her hands on his waist, encouraging him to move back under the spray. 

He turned his body a little under the shower, like he was finally remembering how this worked, closing his eyes as he let the water run through his hair, and when he stepped back, she reached over to turn off the water. 

When she turned back around, he was staring at her— like it’d only just hit him that she was really in there with him, and that she was naked too: she could feel his gaze running down her body, and then he stopped, and she realized he was looking at her words… 

His flesh hand lifted, almost like he was going to touch, but he hesitated… 

“It’s okay,” she said, watching him war with it… “You can touch me if you want.” 

But he faltered, breathing out as he let his hand drop, averting his eyes… 

“I saw yours,” she said softly. “In an old picture, from before. You were right— your dream. They were right there on your arm.” 

"I know," he said. "I can remember it now." 

“It was... when I saw it, the picture..." She didn't know how to explain it to him, the feeling she'd had. "The name and everything— John Brennan.” 

He shuddered in a strange breath, his teeth clattering a little, like he was cold, even though it was still hot and humid there in the stall, and she stepped a little closer, worried, her hand lifting and then falling… 

“Are you okay?” she said, looking at his face for clues, unsure what’d just happened. His eyes were shut, lines of water still running down his face in snaky rivulets, giving the appearance of tears. “Did I— should I not—” 

“It’s the name,” he said. 

“I don’t—” She breathed out, again resisting the urge to reach for him, to pull their bodies together for comfort. “I don’t understand.” 

“Don’t like hearin’ that name,” he said. “That’s what… the lady… the doctor…” 

She felt her teeth clench, swallowing down a curse as a fresh surge of anger ripped through her. It was yet another thing they’d stolen from him— made into something that hurt him. His own goddammed words. 

And then she sucked in a breath, realizing she’d already called him _John_, at least once… “Oh God, I’m sorry…” 

His eyes were still shut— he was breathing through it— and she was trying to code it into herself, not to use that name again… knowing it was going to be hard to break the habit: she’d thought of him as _John_, in her own head, for the past two years… 

“What should I call you?” she said. “We can— I can call you James, or—” 

“No,” he said, cutting her off, “Not James.” 

He opened his eyes and looked at her, and she could see the determination there, as the water dripped off the ends of his hair, the force of certainty in his beautiful blue eyes, as clear as she’d seen them. 

He lifted his flesh hand, and she held her breath as he reached out and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulled her toward him: guided her hand back up to his chest and lay it flat against his skin, so she could once again feel the beat of his heart. 

He took a breath and spoke his truth: 

"I know who I am," he said. “I’m Bucky.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	27. Chapter 27

The stink of the room seemed far worse than before, coming from the citrusy-fresh smell of the shower, and Darcy wrinkled her nose as she stepped back into the stale, sour air, wrapping the towel firmly around her body. She tucked the top corner of it into the edge that lay tight against her chest, to hold it in place, and looked over at the rumpled-up bed. 

She knew he’d been sleeping there for a week, in his dirty Hydra clothes; the bedding had to be filthy. She didn’t want him climbing back in there, back into the stink. 

“We should get you some clean sheets,” she murmured, and then started to ask: “Do you know if there’s any—” 

She’d started to turn back to look at him, and that’s when she realized that he was just standing there, dripping in the doorway to the bathroom, naked. He was watching her— holding the towel she’d given him, but not using it. 

She felt like an asshole: already taking things for granted, just because he’d had a few moments of clarity. 

When he’d claimed his name, there in the shower— had reached out to touch her, electively… the moment itself had been like a sort of sanctuary… maybe less than a minute, in total, but it just as easily could have been an infinite stretch of time, the measure of it paused, as they’d stood there, reconnecting… and then he’d retreated away from it again, returning to the silence of his inner thoughts— had physically retreated as well, turning away to let her exit the stall. 

“Here,” she said, moving back toward him. She took the towel from him and wrapped it around his body— trying to give him the dignity that he seemed unaware of needing, no doubt unaccustomed to having the right to it— and then went back to the bathroom and grabbed another one. Reached up to lay it across his shoulders, to catch the drips from his hair. 

She went over to the bed and took a couple minutes to quickly strip the dirty sheets off— balled them up and added them to the pile of stuff in the corner. 

“I saw some clean clothes on the dresser,” she said. 

She’d never anticipated this: jumping straight into stripping him down, taking a shower… having practical conversations about bedding, getting dressed. In her mind, she’d imagined some kind of beautiful tableau: gazing into each other’s eyes, reaching out to touch… holding each other… sharing soft words of devotion… 

She realized now that that’d been some kind of fairy tale. 

Now that she had a better sense of his condition, she knew that what he needed most was just someone to see to his basic needs. To treat his body with respect until he could do the same, on his own. 

She knew Sam and Steve had been doing the best they could, but it still irritated her that nobody had been able to at least clean him up, or convince him to eat. She supposed there was only so much convincing you could do, when it came to an over-two-hundred-pound traumatized super-soldier, especially when they were all adamant that he not be re-traumatized by forcing things on him… 

"You want to sit down?" she asked, and he did, without answering— shuffled over and sat down on the bare mattress, the towel still wrapped around his hips. Her eyes were again pulled to the nasty-looking scar on his left side. It was like his entire left forequarter had been replaced by metal. She wondered how heavy it was— how it was even attached to him inside. If it hurt…

She went to the dresser to grab the pile of clothes on top, and then went back over to the bed and began to help him dress, starting with a plain white undershirt. Sam had had the foresight to choose a sleeveless one, to make it easier with the prosthesis. She took the towel off his shoulders and then pulled the undershirt down over his head. He helped a little, lifting his flesh arm to thread it through the armhole on the right. 

When he moved the metal arm, the plates on it shifted and adjusted, making a whirring noise— like a machine in a factory. She flinched a little, involuntarily— startled by the sound. 

“M’sorry,” he said quietly. “I know it’s…” It took him a while to find the word he wanted, as he threaded that arm through as well. “Awful,” he finally said. 

She could see the metal fingers moving a little where they lay in his lap. 

“Does it hurt?” she said, keeping her voice soft, neutral. 

“Yeah,” he said. “All the time. It… pulls on me, inside. It’s heavy. I think it’s rippin’ away at my… whatever it’s attached to. Can feel things tearin’ and mendin’, over and over…” 

“God,” she said. She’d stopped moving, just listening to him describe it. She was standing inside his legs a little— in between his knees— and again she had to fight the urge to lay her hands on him… to comfort him… 

“Maybe we can have Mr. Stark look at it,” she said. “He’s a genius with stuff like that. Maybe he can improve it, or—” 

“I just want it off,” he said. “I want all of it gone, everything… I want—” 

He didn’t finish what he was going to say. She waited to see if he would, reaching to grab the plain, light grey boxer briefs in the meantime. 

All the clothing Sam had picked was soft, and generously sized. He seemed to have pre-washed it with loads of fabric softener or something, though it had no flowery odor— he’d deliberately used something unscented. It was like he was following some special protocol for trauma victims—and for all she knew, he was. She had to make sure to thank him for all this… 

She crouched down to thread his bare feet through the leg-holes of the underpants and then pulled them up his calves, and said, “Lift up a sec,” when she got to his thighs, and he complied, and she managed to pull them up most of the rest of the way, until she reached the towel. 

“You wanna pull those up?” she said, still making a point about the privacy— boundaries— even though they’d just been naked together in the shower. She could hear him doing it, while she turned to grab the sweatpants. 

“What do you want?” she said, prompting him to try to finish his last thought. She didn’t know if he was still thinking about it, or if he’d already drifted away from whatever he’d been trying to say. 

She crouched down to get him started on the sweatpants, pulling them up his legs just like the underwear, and this time he lifted up without her having to ask, and helped her pull them up the rest of the way. 

“You want the hoodie now?” she asked. “You cold? Warm?” 

“I ain’t cold, but.” 

“You want it?” she said, and she unzipped it. It was an XXL— too big even for a man like him, but again, Sam had chosen carefully: had gone large, to accommodate the metal arm. 

“I don’t want you havin’ to look at this thing,” he said, and then he finally answered the other question. “I want it to be like it was before. Like when… back when I first met you.” 

“You mean the metal rod? The osseointegration?” 

She’d researched it during their two years apart— understood what it was now. They still weren’t doing that kind of prosthesis in the United States, but she had the feeling that with their connections, they probably could have arranged something, if the Hydra fucks hadn’t taken away all of his remaining limb… 

“Yeah,” he said. “I hate— I hate this. Don’t want it on me. Part of me. Don’t want any of their—” 

“We’ll figure it out,” she said. She helped him get the hoodie on, one sleeve at a time. “But in the meantime, I don’t want you worrying about me. I’m not…” 

She sighed, unsure how to say it. She didn’t want to push it, overwhelm him with her feelings. 

“There’s no way I can even…” She’d finished dressing him, and she sat down next to him on the bed, on his left, not missing the way he moved the metal hand into his lap, so that it wouldn’t be next to her. He’d never been ashamed of his other prosthesis like that. But then, he’d never used the other one to kill people. Hadn’t had it forced upon him. The other one had been a choice. Something he’d wanted. Had called himself ‘lucky’, even, to get it. 

“I’m just so… glad you’re here,” she said finally, even though the word ‘_glad_’ was laughably inadequate. “That you’re okay and… that I can finally see you. I’m not— I’m mad they did that to you: the arm… but I’m not—” 

She’d been about to say that she wasn’t ‘disgusted’ by him, but she didn’t want to introduce that word into a conversation about his body, even as a negation. She wound up just letting the sentence drift off. 

“We’ll figure it out,” she said again, and she pushed up and went over to the dresser and slid open a drawer, wondering if she could borrow any of the clean stuff inside, but it was just more sweatpants and underthings, all of them huge. She slid the drawer shut again. “We’ll find a way to make it how you want it to be.” 

“That ain’t possible,” he murmured, and she turned to look at his back while he spoke. His hair was still dripping, leaving darker, wet spots on the shoulders of the light-grey hoodie. 

“I dunno,” she said. “You should see the stuff Stark can make; he could build something to your exact specifications. He can—” 

“He can’t give me a real arm,” he said. “He can’t give me my real arm back. With your words on it.” 

“Okay,” she said, walking back over. “You’re right; he can’t do that. But let’s focus on what we _can_ do.” She looked around again. “Like… get out of this room, for starters. It smells, and it’s… kinda depressing.” She looked over at the pile of discarded clothing. “And we _are_ gonna burn those clothes.” 

“I don’t think we can,” he murmured. 

“What?” she said. “Why the fuck not?” 

“Steve said something about… I dunno, someone wanted to look them over, see if there was anything…” 

“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” she said, exasperated. “I just wanna… why can’t we just…” 

She didn’t know how to express it. 

“Will you cut my hair?” he said suddenly. 

“What?” she said. She’d heard him, but the response was automatic. 

“Can you cut my hair?” he said again. “I don’t… like I said… I just want it all gone… wanna be…” 

Again, he didn’t finish the thought, but she understood his meaning. 

“Yeah,” she said, and then realized how good it was that he’d suggested something they could actually _do_— and pretty easily, too. “Of course. I’ll ask Sam if he can scrounge up some supplies.” 

Truthfully, she didn’t mind the longer hair— was already getting used to it— but she understood his need— the instinct to be stripped clean of everything Hydra had changed about him, even just through neglect. The arm would have to wait, but the shower and the fresh clothes were a step in the right direction, and a haircut would probably add to that feeling… like a kind of molting: shedding away the persona that Hydra had created, to reclaim what was coming back—what’d been able to stay alive, underneath… 

“I’m gonna message him right now,” she said. She went over to the desk, where she’d left her phone. Sent the text. She was about to put the phone down when there was a chime: a reply, already. She looked at the phone, reading it. 

“You wanna cut your hair right now?” she said, turning to ask. “Sam wants to know.” 

“I guess,” he said. “Yeah.” 

She wrote back, letting Sam know, and then as an afterthought, she gave him a couple of other requests. She also typed out a quick but heartfelt thanks for everything he’d done, and then clicked off the phone and set it back on the desk. 

She was starting to get chilly, so she went back to the bathroom and pulled on her old, dirty clothes. It felt gross, but it was better than walking around in a towel. 

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she said. Her question sounded so formal, as the words hung in the air between them, and she hoped he didn’t think the distance they conveyed was a reflection of her feelings for him… 

She sat down next to him on the bed again— on his right side, this time. She didn’t want him to think it was what _she_ preferred, but she wanted him to feel comfortable. 

“No,” he said. He was quiet a minute, and then he said, “Just your bein’ here…” 

She wanted to reach out and grab his hand… to recapture some of the connection, the comfort they’d so briefly shared in the shower, but he seemed to have withdrawn a bit, and she was trying to match him— whatever he needed, wherever he was at. 

“Would you maybe want to come down to my room?” she said. “After we cut your hair?” 

He didn’t say anything, and then she joked a little: “It smells nicer.” 

He finally took in a deep breath and said, without looking at her, “You won’t be— you’re not—” 

“I want you with me,” she said; it was the clearest, most basic way she could state it. “Here, there, wherever. I mean, if you’re okay with that. If you need me to back off, I will, but I want you to believe me when I say it: I want to be with you. Any way you’ll have me.” 

She could hear him breathing, like he was thinking it over. She couldn’t see his face— his hair completely obscuring his profile again— but after a few minutes, his flesh hand moved over, out of his lap. He didn’t grab onto her hand, but he flexed his fingers against the mattress— almost like he was squeezing her hand, if he’d been holding it. She got the message. 

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” 

* * *

There was a knocking on the door about forty minutes later. They’d just sat there, side-by-side, saying a few words here and there, but mostly just sat in silence, like they were still getting used to the arrangement of the air between them… 

Darcy got up and went to the door, opened it up. Sam was there, with a bunch of Rite-Aid bags. 

“Thanks,” she said, taking the bags and moving them over to the desk. 

“You good?” he said. He’d stayed at the doorway, not entering the room. His eyes flicked over to Bucky, and then back to her. It was a simple question, but there was a lot behind it. 

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re good.” 

He nodded to her, and she could see in his eyes that he was pleased with what they’d already accomplished— the shower, the change of clothes… “Okay,” he said. “Lemme know if you need anything else.” He was about to take off, but she stopped him right as he turned. 

“Hey, Sam?” 

“Yeah,” he said, as he swiveled back around. 

“If he wants to stay in my room? After this? Would that be okay?” 

Sam blinked at her. “He’s not a prisoner here,” he said. “If he’s comfortable staying in your room, then yeah: he should do that. He should do what makes him comfortable.” 

* * *

She dumped the contents of the Rite-Aid bags out on the desk. He’d gotten her a big box of saltines, a jar of peanut butter, a couple different flavors of Gatorade in single-serving bottles, and an electric hair-trimmer kit. He’d thrown in some shaving cream and a package of disposable razors, too; she hadn’t thought to ask for that stuff, but it’d probably be something good to offer, along with the haircut. 

She decided to focus on the food, first. 

He’d shown no interest in the stuff they’d offered him so far, so she’d hoped he’d try something else. She’d remembered something Steve had said once, about how much Bucky had loved peanut butter, back in the day— maybe he would again. Her research on refugees suggested that it’d be an okay thing for someone in his condition to eat, in small amounts. A good protein. She gathered up the box of saltines and the peanut-butter jar, and rejoined him on the bed. 

The box of saltines had four long, plastic-wrapped packages of stacked crackers inside, and she ripped one open— took out one single, salted square. Screwed off the lid on the peanut-butter jar and peeled off the safety-seal inside, setting it aside. She dipped just the corner of the cracker into the peanut butter— it was probably less than an eighth of a teaspoon— and then held it out to him. 

“Give this a try,” she said. “See if you like it.” 

He looked at the cracker she was holding out to him like it was some kind of alien artifact— like he had no idea what he was meant to do with it. But she moved it an inch closer, raising her eyebrows— the body language urging him to at least take it from her, and it worked: he accepted the cracker, held it pinched between his thumb and fingers. 

She took up a cracker for herself, dipped the corner of it into the peanut butter, to match his. 

“Try it,” she said, and then she bit into hers, like an example. “It’s good,” she said, talking with her mouth full. 

He lifted the cracker to his nose— sniffed the peanut butter. Closed his eyes, his lips parting. “I know that smell,” he said. 

“Taste it,” she said. 

He moved the cracker one inch down— from his nose, to his tongue… 

She was trying not to stare at him— to police his process— and she looked down, but she could see in her peripheral vision that instinct finally took over: he bit down on the corner of the cracker, tasting… chewing… 

“So,” she said, “what’s the verdict? You like it?” 

She hazarded another look at his face when he didn’t answer, and she was gratified to see that he was having some kind of… experience. 

His eyes were shut, and it looked like he was rolling the flavors around inside his mouth. She saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, and then he licked his lips and opened his eyes. Breathed out. Looked at her. 

“I remember that,” he said. “That… taste.” He was still holding the rest of the cracker. 

“You like it?” she said. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good. Have some more.” She offered him the peanut-butter jar, so he could dip the rest of his cracker into it himself. “You can double-dip; I don’t care.” 

He still seemed uncertain, so she reached out— put her hand on his, showed him how to scoop up some peanut butter with the edge of the cracker. Tried not to get upset by how he seemed to have lost the instinct to do such basic things, even though his memories, going back almost a hundred years, were apparently intact… 

He put the rest of the cracker in his mouth and chewed and swallowed it. He didn’t ask for any more. 

“You thirsty?” she said. She grimaced as she fought to break the seal on the super-tight Gatorade cap. “God, I hate these things,” she said. “Why do they make them so tight?” 

He reached over wordlessly, and when she looked up at him he nodded— such a tiny movement that it was almost invisible, but the body language was saying it as clearly as any words: _let me_. It was such a normal, socialized thing to do that it made her nose sting a little— could feel herself getting emotional. She handed over the bottle, watching him as he used the metal hand to effortlessly twist the cap off. He tried to hand the bottle back to her. 

“No, it’s for you,” she said. “To drink.” 

She mimed taking a drink from the bottle, and he looked down at it and then tried it, and started coughing immediately after swallowing a big mouthful… 

“Shit, are you okay?” she said, as he continued to cough. He handed the bottle back to her, and she took it, put the cap back on. 

“S’terrible,” he said, when he could speak. 

“Sorry,” she said, though some part of her wanted to laugh. “It’s got electrolytes and shit; thought it’d be good for you.” 

“Think I’ll stick to water,” he said. 

“That’s fine,” she said. She got up and went over to the table with the abandoned food from before— there was an unopened bottle of water on it— and grabbed the hair-trimmer kit, while she was up. 

“Here,” she said, handing him the water, and then sat back down and broke open the box for the trimmer. There was a hard black plastic clamshell case inside, and she opened it up, found the instructions. It was a long piece of paper all folded up accordion-style, and she unfolded it, found the section on the basic operation of the unit, and began to study it while Bucky uncapped and drank some of the water. 

“Help yourself to more peanut butter,” she said, without looking up from the instructions. 

She didn’t think he was going to, but a couple minutes later she heard a rustling as he got another saltine out of the package. 

* * *

“Where do you want to do this?” she asked. 

She’d finished reading all the instructions, and felt like she had a pretty good idea of what to do. Just to be sure, she’d Googled ‘_long hair Wahl cut_’ on her phone and had found a video on YouTube that gave her a better sense of how to approach the kind of situation she was dealing with. 

“Don’t matter,” he said. 

“Yeah, I guess,” she agreed, looking around the room. “I think we’re gonna abandon this room pretty soon anyway, so who cares if we make a mess.” 

She looked at the peanut butter jar. He hadn’t eaten a lot, but more than she’d expected— maybe a half-dozen crackers. It was probably a good idea to stop anyway— see if he could keep it down. “You done eating?” 

“Guess so,” he said. “But thanks… thanks for—” 

“You think of anything else you wanna eat or drink, you let me know, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“You wanna shave, or just do the hair?” she asked. 

“Hair, I guess,” he said. “Unless you…” 

She realized he was asking if she didn’t like the beard. It wasn’t like he’d grown it out as a fashion choice. 

“It’s not about me,” she said. “What do you want?” 

“Don’t really care,” he said. “Just wanna… feel clean, I guess.” 

“Let’s just start with the hair,” she suggested. “And then see how you feel.” 

“Okay.” 

“Maybe if you sit over there,” she said, gesturing toward the desk. “There’s an outlet over there…” 

He got up from the bed, moving slowly, while she picked up the chair and moved it over to the desk. He didn’t sit down right away— almost like he was waiting for permission. She felt another stir of anger, realizing that was probably exactly what was going on: so unused to being allowed to do things— even something as basic as sitting— without being told, that part of him was still defaulting to that behavior. 

“You wanna sit down?” she said. 

“Okay,” he said. 

She had to crawl under the desk to plug the trimmer in, and then backed out again and stood up. “How much you want off?” she said. The set came with a variety of plastic snap-on guards, to change the amount the trimmer would take off. 

“What?” he said, not understanding. 

“Your hair,” she said. “How much should I cut off?” 

“All of it,” he said. 

“All of it? Like a buzz-cut?” 

“I guess,” he said. “Yeah.” 

“Okay,” she said. She was a little surprised: it was going to be a big change, and leave him totally exposed, but she didn’t argue. Didn’t want to make it seem like she knew what was best for him, better than he did. 

She checked the instructions again: it said you could achieve a buzz-cut without using any clip-on guard at all, but she wasn’t comfortable with using the blade right against his scalp. She opted for the second-to-lowest-number guard, figuring they could always go closer, if he wasn’t satisfied the first time around. 

She positioned herself behind him, snapped the red plastic guard onto the end of the trimmer, and then flipped on the power switch— immediately turned it off again, when the loud, vibrating buzz of the unit made both of them flinch. 

“God, sorry,” she said, her heart pounding. “I wasn’t expecting that. You okay?” 

He didn’t respond, and she came around so she could see his face. “Bucky. You okay?” She instinctively reached out and put her hand on his arm. He didn’t flinch away from her touch, but he seemed very tense. 

“Yeah,” he finally said. “Just— like you said. Wasn’t expecting it.” 

“You still wanna do this? We don’t have to; we can wait and—” 

“No, I wanna do it,” he said. “But can you— maybe if you…” 

“I’m gonna turn it on here,” she said. “In front of you, so you can see what I’m doing.” 

“Okay,” he said. 

She turned it on again, and they both flinched again, but not as badly. “You wanna feel it?” she asked, holding it out to him, and he accepted it, examined it for a few seconds, and then passed it back. 

“You ready?” she asked. It was going to be a lot of touching. She was nervous, but trying not to convey that to him. 

“I guess,” he said. 

“Okay, here goes,” she said. 

It didn’t take long, once she figured out the best way to do it, basing her approach on the way the lady in the video had done it: she’d grab up a long section of hair, holding it out so that it was perpendicular to his scalp, and then went at it with the trimmer, taking off big strips of it each time. There were massive amounts of hair drifting down— like some kind of dark-haired mammal had exploded on the floor. Once she got all the length off, she went over his entire scalp again, carefully this time. 

She had to put her hands on him a lot, during the second pass: to steady his head with one hand, while she guided the edge of the trimmer slowly up his scalp. To fold down the tips of his ears as she went carefully around the margins. To tip his head down, or at an angle, so she could get the sides and back of his neck. He was quietly compliant the entire time, and she could feel all the tension in his body, but she was determined to get it done— to do what he wanted. 

The whole thing took about fifteen minutes, and when she was done, she turned off the clipper, moved around him to set it down on the desk, and then turned to look at his face— see if he was okay. 

He would have looked like a marine, if he’d been more healthy. With the gauntness of his face, and the week-old beard, he looked more like he’d just gotten out of a prison camp. 

She supposed, in a way, he had… 

“All done,” she said, her voice breaking, and she turned away again, not wanting him to see her tears. She crawled back under the desk to unplug the unit, and fussed unnecessarily with it to avoid looking at him again right away— she was trying to figure out how to wrap the cord around it such a way that it would Tetris back into the shitty plastic container, along with all of the guards. 

He hadn’t moved or spoken while her back was turned, and she was getting frustrated, unable to fit all the crap back in, and she finally just left it all on the desk, giving up. 

She turned back around, trying not to be such a coward. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” he said. His head was bowed, and he reached back with his flesh hand, feeling the back of his head. “Feels… lighter.” 

“I bet,” she said. “There’s a lot of hair on the floor.” She looked at his clothes. “And on you. Fuck, I should’ve draped a towel around you or something.” She went and grabbed the towel off the bed and came back. “Can I— is it okay if I try to get the hair off?” she said. “It’s gonna be itchy if I don’t.” 

“Okay.” 

She brushed at him carefully with the damp towel, trying to get all the stray hairs off his hoodie, and the back of his neck where little bits of it had fallen down in between. He seemed okay with the contact— just breathing, saying nothing, his eyes closed. 

“You wanna shave?” she said, as she finished up. “Or…” 

“No,” he said. “I’m…tired. I think I wanna rest now.” 

“Okay,” she said, and then hesitated. “You want me to leave, or…” 

It took him a while to answer. 

“Can we still…” 

“You wanna go back to my room with me?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “If that’s—” 

She teared up again and swiped the heels of her hands against her eyes. “Yeah, it’s okay,” she said. 

* * *

She put the crackers and peanut butter back into one of the Rite-Aid bags, to take with them, but left the rest of the stuff behind. She called Sam first, letting him know they were moving to her room, and he told her he’d keep the hallways and elevator clear for them, so Bucky wouldn’t have to risk running into anyone else on the way. Sam Wilson was a fucking gift. 

When they got to her room, he stepped in behind her, looked around uncertainly at the comfortable furniture, the tasteful decorations, nothing familiar about any of it. He was moving very slowly. 

She could feel his tension, like he didn’t think he should be there… didn’t belong. 

“It’s just a guest suite,” she explained. “None of this stuff is mine.” 

She was afraid he was going to panic and flee… 

“Bedroom’s this way,” she said. 

The bedroom was huge, as was the bed. She hadn’t made the bed after getting up— she never did— so the sheets were a messed-up tangle, and she moved ahead of him into the room, dropping the Rite-Aid bag so that she could straighten the sheets. She turned them back on one side, trying to make it look more inviting for him. 

He was still barefoot— hadn’t bothered with socks before they’d left the other room— and after a moment of hesitation, he just climbed into the bed fully dressed and lay down on his side, facing out, toward the wall. 

“You good?” she said. 

“Can you… will you get in with me?” he said. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Of course. Just give me a minute.” 

She picked up the Rite-Aid bag— went back to the kitchen and put the food on the counter, taking the time to get the rest of her tears out, while she was out of his sight. Used the bathroom and washed her hands, ran a cold washcloth over her face. Took a few deep breaths and then returned to the bedroom. 

He hadn’t moved from his position on his side. His eyes were still open. 

“I’m back,” she said. She kicked off her shoes and then she stripped off her leggings and her sweatshirt, leaving her in a tank-top and underpants and socks. She unhooked her bra and threaded it off. Climbed into the bed on the open side. 

He was lying on his right side, so she knew the heavy metal prosthesis was under the hoodie on the side of his body that was facing upward. She didn't know if he wanted her to snuggle into him, though she wanted to— the pull to do so was intense. 

She needed to leave it up to him: needed to wait for some verbal or physical cue, so she chose to just lie on her back. She shut her eyes. 

She felt movement— a dip in the mattress— a few minutes later, and she opened her eyes to see what he was doing. He’d rolled over to face her, but his eyes were closed. She felt like she was holding her breath. 

After a few more minutes, his flesh hand drifted over to her. Wrapped around her waist and gently pulled her into his body. She rolled fully onto her left side, helping him, moving back into him until he was spooned around her, his arm draped around her protectively. She could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck, the rise and fall of his chest as he settled, and for the first time in two years, Darcy felt like she could take a full breath and let it out. 

It was the feeling she’d been waiting for, for two years. 

Together. Safe. 

She hoped he was feeling it too. 

* * *

He slept a lot. 

Sam said it was normal. To be expected. As were the nightmares, and the long periods of silence. 

Sometimes he cried. 

It wasn’t all bad: he was eating more, moving more, when he wasn’t sleeping. He’d sit with her on the couch as she read a book or scrolled through her phone. She kept the TV off, the lights low. 

He didn’t speak much. 

In bed, he just spooned her, never trying for more— never anything sexual about it— although one morning when she woke up he’d slid down, rucking up her shirt to rest his cheek on her belly. She let her hand drift down to touch his hair— his shaved head was soft, like peach fuzz, and she stroked it with her fingertips. He’d stayed there, the side of his face resting against her soft stomach, for almost an hour. 

He was the same person— the man she’d known as John— but not. He was everything else now, too. Everything that Bucky had been, before the war— the memories, at least. And everything that John had been, after they’d taken him again. She knew he was trying to work all of that out. To figure out who he was. 

She knew he’d talked a little bit about it with Steve— about his captivity, the things they’d made him do... both long ago, before Kazakhstan, and the other stuff, from the last two years— but he didn’t talk about it to her. It was okay. He knew she was there, ready to listen, if he decided he wanted to. 

They talked about the arm. About approaching Stark, as she’d suggested, for some kind of replacement. It was a conflict of warring needs: he wanted the Hydra arm gone, but he was afraid of the procedure. Afraid of reliving that kind of experience, even if he knew the people working on him weren’t the enemy. 

Stark came through, presenting him with no fewer than a dozen different possibilities for a new bionic arm. Bucky made his selections, opting for a system where he could swap out a variety of attachments— the closest he could get to the setup he’d had before, with the rod and puck— and they figured out a plan, settled on a schedule. 

Sometimes, when he was sleeping, she just sat in a chair, watching him. The protective feeling she had was like nothing she’d felt before: almost feral. Dangerous. She wondered if it was how he’d felt about her, back in the desert. 

She realized she would die for him, without question. Nobody was going to hurt him. Never again. 

She insisted on meeting all of the surgical team personally, well ahead of time. Shook all their hands, flesh-to-flesh. She would make no assumptions about security. They were all cleared, and she conveyed her approval to Bucky. The surgery was one week away. 

* * *

The morning of the surgery, he kissed her… 

They’d been spooning in bed, like always, his hand on her waist, and she’d felt him awaken, his bare legs moving slowly under the sheets, brushing against hers as he took in a deep breath. 

“Darcy,” he said, his voice quiet. He did that sometimes: said her name, right after waking up. Like he needed to know she was there. Real. Needed her verbal confirmation, even as he held her close. 

She rolled over to face him, just like always. “I’m here,” she said. Put her palm on his face, felt the scrape of his beard. He’d never shaved it, but had learned how to use an electric trimmer to keep it clean and tidy. It suited him. The new Bucky. 

“You nervous?” she said. 

“No.” 

He lifted his flesh hand and touched her face. He did that sometimes too, and she reveled in it, every time— the simple intimacy of it. Grateful for any little touch from him, no matter how slight. 

This time he leaned in, along with his hand, nudging his entire body over a little more, getting closer, and she held her breath as she felt his face brush against hers— just his cheek at first, the feel of him both soft and prickly— and her heart pounded from the contact: the closest he’d come to doing this, since he’d come back. 

She didn’t move a muscle— let him lead— as he turned his face, his lips feathering against her cheek: just a light touch… and then he kissed her there once, like he was testing out the mechanics of it… remembering how… and then he moved over to her mouth… 

He still had his hand on her, and his fingers curled into her cheek as little as he took her upper lip, his mouth only closing partway, his breathing shallow, and she could feel how he was shaking… 

He made a little sound as he tried again, and she could feel it— feel the sound of him against her mouth, and it flooded her entire body, feeling it everywhere as she let her eyes fall shut, savoring the feel of him so close… his taste, remembering it… and she made her own sound, just a short little noise— vulnerable— like the most simple, primal sound of happiness a human being could make… a sound that meant, _yes_… 

He exhaled and relaxed, his lips still trembling as he let her go, and he dropped his face into her neck and sighed, like he wanted to burrow into her… 

She was leaking a few little tears, her hand moving around to the back of his neck, holding him against her, and she whispered to him: “_Baby_…” 

She wanted to say 'I love you,' but the moment was already perfect. 

Nothing else needed to be said. 

* * *

The surgery went well: the team was incredible, taking as much care with his emotional needs as with the physical concerns, and when it was all over, he had a beautiful new shoulder and socket, and three new arms to choose from. He was satisfied. 

He didn’t talk about what a relief it was, to get the other one off— he didn’t need to. She could see it in the way he moved, the way even his moods were less weighted. It’d been the right decision. 

When they asked him what he wanted to do with the old, heavy arm, he didn’t hesitate: 

“Burn it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



	28. Chapter 28

She waited— put it off for weeks, as she helped him adjust to his new body. 

Even with the immediate and obvious improvement— the decrease in physical weight, the freedom from the psychological burden of wearing his captors’ mark— there was still a lot to adjust to. He had a new center of gravity, which made him clumsy, and it would take a while to assimilate all the features of his new prosthesis and its various attachments. They both worked at it, patiently, gradually integrating the new system into his self-care and the rest of his daily routine. 

He was doing more and more for himself, and after a few weeks, she could see that he was beginning to move about the suite with a quiet confidence. He even went down to the Tower’s fancy fitness center with Sam and Steve a couple times, to try out some of the exercise equipment. Everyone was encouraged by how far he’d come, physically, from the shut-down state he’d been in during his first week at the Tower, and he was getting stronger every day. 

His psychological healing seemed to have accelerated as well: he was more communicative— was starting to show a wider range of emotion. 

His first laugh— a month to the day after the surgery— had been a gift, so fleeting she almost missed it… 

They’d invited Sam and Steve over for spaghetti; Sam had had to decline— he had a dinner date at some fancy Japanese place in Tribeca— but Steve had made it over to their suite just as they were finishing up on the stove: Bucky dumping out the noodles into a strainer, while Darcy got out plates and silverware. 

When Steve offered to help, Darcy had handed him the wine to open. He’d stood there at the counter silently, his eyebrows pinched together, confused by the modern, lever-style corkscrew— trying to figure it out. 

“What,” he’d said defensively, as Bucky rescued him, reaching around to grab the tool so he could do it himself. “I never seen one like that.” 

“S’okay, grandpa,” said Bucky. He loved to tease Steve just as much as Darcy did, and had picked up the ‘grandpa’ thing, even though he was technically even older than Steve. “Can’t all be geniuses.” 

“You know what,” said Steve, with put-on irritation, but he was grinning, and then Darcy started giggling, and when she looked at Bucky, she saw it, in profile: just a few seconds of this goofy little snicker, as he positioned the tool onto the neck of the bottle. 

It was over so quickly, but she’d seen it, and it took her breath away. She looked over at Steve, who was standing behind him and to the side, and he met her eyes, and she could see that he was feeling it too— he hadn’t seen the laugh, but he may as well have, because he was having the same emotion as Darcy— almost tearing up at how completely normal it all was… the three of them, relaxed, giving each other shit… it was a fucking dream come true… 

* * *

The first time she saw him smile— a few weeks before that— it’d been even more emotional. He’d been in the bathtub, taking a nice long soak, while Darcy sat on the closed lid of the toilet, reading a book. She’d looked up when it’d gotten very quiet— the kind of quiet that made you feel you were being watched… 

She’d looked over, and sure enough, he was staring at her— his face all flushed from the heat of the water— and when they made eye contact, he did it: just this soft little smile, like they had a secret together— something nobody else knew about— and then he’d looked away… shut his eyes and leaned back again, missing the way her eyes welled up with tears, her chest almost heaving with the feelings that were flooding through her… love, and gratitude, and… yeah. 

Love and gratitude. 

There’d been a half-dozen more since then: soft little smiles in bed, bigger grins when she said something funny… and she felt each one of them— so beautiful on his face— for the auguries that they were: evidence that he was healing. 

* * *

About a month after the surgery, when she was sure he could spare her for more than a few hours, she picked a day— set it up with Natasha— and then she told him she was going to go out for most of the afternoon, to do some errands. 

She shouldered her backpack and kissed him once, leaning down to reach his lips where he sat on the couch, and smoothed her hand over his fuzzy head. It’d become an addiction for her, the feel of it… he was letting it grow out a little, so it wouldn’t be so severe, but she’d been enjoying it: couldn’t keep her hands off it… it was still so soft… 

“Mmm,” she said, as she pulled back, licking her lips. “You taste like Reese’s peanut-butter cups…” 

He had a jar of peanut butter on the table next to the couch— had broken up an entire Hershey’s milk-chocolate bar into it; was eating it with a spoon while he read through the _Penguin History of the Twentieth Century_— on loan from Steve. He would eat entire jars like that, in one sitting, the way she’d mow through a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. 

Her comment made him smile— another one— the corners of his eyes crinkling a little, and it was like a fucking ray of sunshine right into her heart, lighting it up. 

“I’ll be back by dinnertime,” she said, and when he licked his own lips, still gazing up at her, she laughed a little and bent down to kiss him again, almost tipping over onto the couch when he deepened it, giving her a real taste, and if she hadn’t needed to leave, she would’ve let him pull her onto the couch with him, into his lap, for what was now one of his favorite activities: kissing… for what seemed like hours sometimes, all wrapped up in each other as the sun curved its way across the sky, turning morning into afternoon… afternoon into evening… evening into night… 

She put a hand between them, almost giggling, forcing herself away… backing up, like he was something dangerous. “I really gotta… I’ll be back in a bit,” she said, sounding dazed— like a dummy— because that was how much his lips scrambled her brain, and he knew it, too: grinned as he slipped another spoonful of peanut butter into his mouth… 

* * *

She’d been planning some version of this for a while— even before the surgery— but once they’d gotten the big, heavy arm off his body, and he’d told them to destroy it, she’d known exactly what she wanted to do. Had talked to Natasha, to make it happen. 

The redhead was waiting for her, outside the gates, when she got out of the cab. It’d been an expensive ride— over ninety minutes to get there— but it was worth every penny. This particular prison wasn’t part of the NYS Department of Corrections; it was a very special place known to few, housing an exclusive class of shitheads who posed a threat to global security. 

People like Jasper Sitwell. 

Natasha had a big red duffel bag over her shoulder, and Darcy raised her eyebrows at it. 

“Think we’ll have any problem getting it through?” she said. 

“Nope,” said Natasha. “We’re good.” 

She sent Darcy through security first; she had to take off her backpack and send it through the X-ray machine, while she stepped through the metal detector— just like at an airport. When Natasha followed, presenting the duffel bag to the guard, he said, “This it?” 

“Yup,” she said as she handed it over. 

“Heavy,” he said, and then he simply passed it over to her on the other side of the gate, without even looking inside. 

“Thanks, Derek,” she said. 

“My pleasure,” said the guy. “Enjoy.” They could hear him radioing something to his colleagues: instructions for the guards who would escort them the rest of the way in. 

Natasha walked with her as far as the gate to the individual cells, and then stopped. “You want me to go with?” she said. 

Their escort of two guards waited to the side, politely. Though they were each twice her size and probably double her weight, they seemed intimidated by Natasha, which made Darcy feel pretty cool, just by association. 

“Nah,” said Darcy. “I’m good.” 

“All right, then,” said Natasha. She passed the heavy duffel bag over to Darcy. “I’ll be here. Take your time.” 

* * *

The two-guard escort led her down another wide hallway with solid, solitary-confinement-style cell-doors on both sides, each with a narrow, rectangular window at head-height, and locked-and-covered pass-through slots halfway down. They went past all of those, and then reached another secure door, where one of the guards swiped a key-card, granting them access to the area beyond. 

There was a single guard in the next room, which was divided in two: one half a glass-walled cell, the other half a place for guards or visitors to sit. The guard was youngish, mid-30s, with dark brown skin and a clean-shaven face. He was seated at a desk, reading a _Captain America_ comic book, and he set it down on the desktop when he saw them opening the secure door. The other two guards retreated, handing Darcy off to the other guy as the door relatched behind them. 

“Ma’am,” said man, nodding to her as he stood up. He didn’t even glance at the big red duffel bag. “Good timing,” he said. “He just finished his mid-morning shit.” 

“Lovely,” said Darcy. “Glad I missed it.” 

She looked over at the other half of the room, which was framed by a reinforced-glass wall, giving a full view of the single, confined space that was now Jasper Sitwell’s permanent residence. It was reminiscent of the supermax cells from _Silence of the Lambs_, only rather than a dark, dungeon-like feel, this cell was brightly-lit and very real— the layout and illumination making it obvious that the prisoner within had nowhere to hide. 

There was a narrow, less-than-twin-sized bedframe attached to one corner, with a thin, uncomfortable-looking mattress on it. A stainless-steel combination sink-and-commode was bolted to the other wall, making Darcy understand that her comment was more appropriate than she’d realized: Jasper Sitwell couldn’t so much as take a piss in private any more; if she’d arrived any sooner, she’d have walked in on him sitting on the can… 

Sitwell himself was now seated at a tiny writing desk, though there were no writing materials on it, or belongings of any kind. He was watching them both, his face composed into a sort of put-on nonchalance that was utterly transparent: he had no power here, and they all knew it. 

“He’s being punished,” explained the guard. 

“For what,” said Darcy, as she set down the duffel bag and took off her backpack. She could see Sitwell’s eyes move to the bag. He was wearing cheap, shitty-looking plastic prison-issue eyeglasses that didn’t complement his facial structure. 

“Ah, some of the guys in the yard like to throw shit-balls at each other,” said the guard, and he chuckled at Darcy’s disgusted face. “It’s the most they’ve got for entertainment around here,” he explained. “Feuds. Attacks, retaliation…” 

Darcy snickered finally. “He threw a shit-ball at someone?” 

“Nah,” said the guard. “Shit-ball hit him in the face, and he freaked out, threw off the glasses. ‘Nother guy stepped on ‘em, broke the frames. Was a whole… what— three dollars, probably, down the drain. Lucky asshole just happened to break ‘em the same day the eye doc was here doin’ checkups; got a replacement pair within the week.” 

“Is that not typical?” asked Darcy. 

“I seen some guys wait five months for a pair of corrective lenses,” said the guard. 

“Huh,” she said. “It’s a nice thought.” 

“What is,” said the guard. 

“That that’s about as good as it’s gonna get for him,” she said. “Picking the right day to get hit in the face with shit.” 

The guard snickered. “Sounds about right,” he said. “Anyway, they took his books away, for fightin’, so until next week he just gets to stare at the wall.” 

“Boo-hoo,” said Darcy. 

“You need to talk to him? I got the intercom turned off. But I could switch it on for you.” 

“Could you?” said Darcy. “Thanks.” 

“No problem,” he said. He went over to the wall and pressed a white rocker-switch on a control panel. “He’s all yours,” he said, and then he sat down and picked up his comic book again, in a gesture of giving her some sense of privacy for her interaction. 

Darcy approached the glass. Took a good long look at Jasper Sitwell. Let the anger bleed through all of her cells, and then allowed it to transmute into the warm and glowing satisfaction she felt on a daily basis now: the knowledge that Bucky was free. Safe. That they’d never hurt him again. That Sitwell was in here for life, shitting in a steel bowl with a twenty-four-hour audience. 

“Remember me?” she said, as she got in close to the glass. 

Sitwell didn’t reply. His tongue dipped out once to lick his lips, but he didn’t speak. 

“I wanted you to know that you were wrong,” she said. “About everything.” 

He remained silent, just watching her as he sat in his chair. 

“You remember?” she said. “You remember what you said to Steve? You said, ‘_He doesn’t even know he’s a real person_.’ Called him a machine. You said, ‘_There is no Barnes anymore_.’” 

She allowed her voice to get a little sarcastic: “Oh— maybe you don’t remember. I forgot; you don’t have a soulmate who loves you, helping you heal, keeping your brain tip-top…” 

She bent down and unzipped her backpack. Pulled out a nine-by-eleven cardboard sleeve; it was protecting the photograph inside, which she carefully removed. 

She’d taken the picture about a week before. Bucky was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. She’d been lucky enough to capture the moment on her phone, and she’d gone down to the drug store immediately to get the picture printed so that she could frame it and put it on her desk. She’d had this one made up special, in a larger format, just for the occasion. 

She stood up, flipped it around so that the image-side was pressed into the glass, facing Sitwell, and held it there. “Take a nice long look, asshole. He’s happy. He’s not yours, or theirs, or anybody’s. He knows who he is, and he’s free.” 

She could see Sitwell’s eyes flick to the photo, taking a few seconds to look at it. 

“What, no smug reply this time?” she said. “That’s fine. There’s nothing you can say to me that’ll make any difference. We’re free, and we’re happy and we fucking _win_. You’re never getting out of here. Welcome to the rest of your life, you shit-stain.” 

She was finished, and she pulled the photo back from the glass, put it carefully back into the cardboard sleeve and then returned it to her backpack. She could see that he was still looking at the duffel bag, wondering what was inside. 

“Yeah,” she said, acknowledging his obvious interest. “I brought you a present. You wanna see?” 

She unzipped it slowly, and then pulled out the heavy, unwieldy metal Hydra arm that the surgical team had taken nearly eleven hours to remove from Bucky’s body. She held it up with both hands, at chest height, so he could see it, and then she let it drop to the floor with a resounding _thunk_. 

She swiveled around then and nodded to the guard, who was still pretending to read the comic book. “I’m done,” she said. 

* * *

“Feel good?” said Natasha as they walked together back to the main entrance. 

“Yeah,” said Darcy, grinning for a moment, but then her smile faltered a little. “Not as much as I’d hoped, though.” 

“Oh?” said the other woman. 

Darcy took a minute to think about it. “I guess… I dunno. It was never revenge I was after. I just want Bucky to feel good. To be truly happy, for more than three minutes out of the day.” 

“You think he’s unhappy?” she said. “Doesn’t seem that way to me. He’s come a long way in very short time…” 

“I know,” said Darcy. “Maybe I’m just impatient. I saw him laugh the other day, and it was like…” She paused, trying to figure out how to say it. “It made me realize it was the first time he’d done it. And I want that for him all the time. Every day. Some days he’s still so… like he’s never gonna stop worrying, somewhere inside. Like he’ll never be totally _done_ with it, you know?” 

She breathed out. “I guess I’m just thinking ahead,” she said. “Long-term. I want him to feel… peaceful.” 

“It’ll happen,” said Natasha. “It just takes time. Maybe less than it would have otherwise, since he has you…” 

They’d reached the parking lot, and Natasha paused by the obnoxiously-gorgeous, sleek black race-car she’d driven in, and said, “Give you a lift back to the city?” 

“It’s not out of your way?” said Darcy. 

“Nope,” said Natasha. “I got a couple people I wanna see, anyway…” 

“Uh huh,” said Darcy, having a pretty good idea of who at least one of those people was… “Okay, then. Save me a couple hundred bucks…” 

She’d all but drained the checking account that Coulson had set up for her and Steve, way back when they’d relocated to Brooklyn, and it was starting to weigh on her mind… worrying about how she was going to support herself, and Bucky… 

They got in, tossing the now-lightweight duffel bag into the back. They were both quiet for a while, as Natasha steered the car away from the prison complex and onto the open road. Once they were back on the expressway, Manhattan-bound, Natasha took a breath and said, “It took me a long time… but even I’ve been known to smile, from time to time…” 

Darcy glanced over, and she couldn’t resist: “Oh yeah? Steve Rogers wouldn’t be the cause of any of those smiles, would he?” 

She was just teasing— knew that Natasha and Steve didn’t have anything more than a friendship going on, but she also knew, as did anyone who spent more than five minutes in room with them, that there could be more, if they ever decided to try it… 

Natasha’s lips quirked just a fraction, but she didn’t say a word, and Darcy grinned a little wider as she looked out the window again… 

* * *

Natasha dropped her off in front of the Tower— she had a few more stops to make before catching up with her colleagues. Before Darcy got out of the car, the other woman reached into the back to get something from behind her seat— handed over a thick manila envelope. 

“I saw Agent May last week,” she said. “She wanted me to pass this on to you.” 

“What is it?” said Darcy, accepting the envelope. People were honking angrily at Natasha— she was double-parked, partially blocking the lane— but she pointedly ignored them. 

“Something Coulson put together. Before he died. Wanted you to have it. You and Barnes.” 

“Really?” she said, unable to hide the surprise on her face. “How come—” 

“I don’t think she knew about it until recently,” she said. “And then there were some legal things to work out…” 

The honking was become more intense, and motorists were swerving angrily around her, shouting at her, one of them almost running over a bike messenger, in his attempt to make his rage known. 

“I better let you go,” said Darcy. “But… thanks. For today.” 

“It was my pleasure.” 

Darcy got out and slammed the door, smiling as the redhead peeled out and drove away. 

* * *

The guest suite was quiet— the couch empty— when she let herself back in. He was probably napping. She toed off her shoes and put down her backpack, and then walked back to the bedroom, still carrying the manila envelope. 

He was reclined on the bed on his side, just in a pair of sweatpants— no shirt, no left arm— still reading his book. He closed it and put it aside when she came in, watching as she dropped the envelope on the bedside table. She sat down on the bed and got mostly undressed, just leaving on her underpants and bra, and then lay down beside him, letting out a long, tired breath. 

“Where’d you go?” he said, as he nudged his body over to hers. He seemed surprised that she hadn’t come back loaded down with shopping bags, after the number of hours she’d been gone. 

She moved her eyes to his, and took another deep breath. “Promise you won’t get mad?” she said, and she could see the flicker of humor in the subtle micro-expressions of his face as his hand moved over to her belly, his finger tracing a lazy circle around her navel. 

“Don’t wanna make a promise I can’t keep,” he said. “If you’re thinking I’m gonna be mad, then I’m probably gonna be mad.” He flattened his hand on her stomach, his movements turning into more of a caress. “But I promise I won’t be mad forever.” 

“Okay,” she said. She bit her lip and then breathed out and said it. “I went to see Sitwell.” 

His hand froze on her body, and she looked at him nervously. His face had stilled too, some part of him pulling away inside, just as she’d feared. 

“Why,” he finally said, the word sounding flat. 

“To tell him to suck my ass,” she said. When he didn’t make any comment, she sighed and said, “I dunno. I guess I just needed to have the last word.” 

He was quiet, just watching her, considering what she’d said. He didn’t seem as mad as she’d been afraid of. Maybe more… disappointed. 

“Did it help?” he asked. 

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe just because I realized what I really want.” 

“Which is…” 

“Just to be happy,” she said, as she stared up at the ceiling. “For both of us to be happy. I don’t need revenge. Or if I do, then us being happy is revenge enough.” 

“You think I ain’t happy?” he said. “Here with you?” 

“I don’t know,” she said, and she finally looked at him again. “Are you?” 

He rolled into her a little then, put his hand on her face as he leaned down to kiss her, slowly, and she parted her lips, letting him in… 

“I’m getting there,” he said, whispering it into her mouth… 

They kissed and touched each other for a while, his flesh hand roving over her skin— her shoulder, her collarbones, the softness of her breasts through the fabric of her satiny bra… 

She sighed into him and twined her legs into his. They hadn’t gotten as far as making love yet, but like he said… they were getting there. 

“How’s your shoulder today?” she asked, when he broke a kiss to adjust his body on the mattress. 

His new prosthetic system was a true work of art, but the team had had to do extensive reconstruction on the left side of his body. Even with his accelerated healing, it’d been a lot for him to go through, and he still had some days with a fair amount of pain, if he overdid it. 

“Feels pretty good,” he said. “Best it’s been so far…” 

“Yeah?” she said, and she smiled at him, unable to hide her pleasure at his report, as her thumb dragged down through the dent in his chin. 

He smiled back at her, his face soft and open. “God, you’re pretty,” he said. “I tell you that yet today?” His hand had drifted down, brushing over the front of her underpants, and he cupped her gently between her legs as he kissed her again… 

“Pretty horny, if you keep doing that,” she said, and then giggled when she felt him smile against her mouth. 

“Oh yeah?” He seemed to take it as a challenge, his hand finding a soft rhythm of gentle strokes and circles as her legs fell apart, her breath picking up, and then his hand moved back up just long enough to dip beneath her waistband, moving back down to find her, warm and wet… 

He breathed out a sigh into her mouth as soon as he felt her, his fingers slipping in between… 

“_God_,” she whispered, loving his touch, moving a little against the glide of his fingers, and then she kissed him again, and she wanted to touch him so badly… 

She knew he could easily get her off with his hand alone— he’d gotten pretty good at it in the weeks since the surgery, when he’d wanted to make her feel good, even if he himself wasn’t ready yet… 

He wasn’t always up for it— being touched— and she always went slow, checking in every step of the way… 

“Can I touch you?” she said, in between more heavy breaths, hoping he’d say _yes_, feeling dizzy from the ache of want— wanting to make him feel as good as she was feeling… 

“Yeah,” he said, his own breath already coming faster. “Yeah. I want you to.” He pulled his hand out of her underpants, so he could push his own pants off, and she took the opportunity to get the rest of her own clothes off, kicking off her underwear and flinging aside her bra, and then they rolled back into each other, and he kissed her deeply, breaking it with a shuddering inhale when she reached down to feel him… 

“You okay?” she said, pausing to check in again. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Keep goin’.” 

She stroked him softly, loving the way he felt as he filled up, responding to her, and his own hand returned to her body, going slow, feeling her inside and out while he kissed her, working her up in a gradual crescendo, and she could feel him leaking, his body wanting, and he pulled his mouth away from her again, just enough to speak, his lips still brushing her skin as he said it… “Wanna feel you… wanna feel you inside…” 

His fingers were already inside her, so her heart stuttered a little at his meaning, and she opened her eyes, looked at his face when she asked it. “You sure?” she said. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Goddamn… yeah.” 

He pulled his fingers out and rolled himself atop her, her legs opening more to make room, and he reached down to hold himself steady as he rubbed the tip of himself against her, coating himself in her slick, and he kept his eyes on her face as he pushed himself in, slowly, until he was about halfway there, and then he shuddered, his eyes closing again, his head dropping to her shoulder… 

“You okay?” she said, struggling to get the words out, because it already felt so good: the feel of his girth starting to fill her, stretch her, after so long… She wanted to just drift away— lose herself in it— but she knew she needed to stay present, for him… to take care of him. She put her hand on the side of his face, trying to keep him grounded, keep him there with her… 

He took a moment, just holding there, halfway in, and then he lifted his head to look at her, finding her again with his eyes, and he pulled back a little, gathering more of her slick, and then pushed in the rest of the way, and the sound he made as he bottomed out was so sensual that she could feel herself flush with moisture around him, as she squeezed him inside… 

“Fuck,” he said, and he pushed against her when she relaxed, trying to get closer… “Fuck…” 

“You okay?” she said again. 

His eyes were shut, but she saw the little hint of a half-smile that pulled up one corner of his mouth. “You kiddin’ me?” he said. “_Fuck_…” 

She smiled and squeezed him again, and he groaned, and said, “Jesus… _God_… why’d we wait so long to do this…” He pulled back a little and pushed in again, slowly, reveling in the drag in both directions, rolling his hips at the end… 

“Needed,” she said, “Needed to be sure…” 

“God, sweetheart,” he said. “I always been sure…” He pulled back again, farther this time, and then slid back in with another moan, moving his knees up a little for leverage, pressing her harder into the bed… “Just didn’t wanna… didn’t wanna freeze, right in the middle… make it bad for you…” 

“_Baby_,” she said, her hands curling into the flesh of his back as he ground into her, pressing on her pubic bone, and she gasped, almost coming right then… “Could never be _bad_… _God_…” 

Her hands were still curling into his sides, into the meat of his body on either side of his spine, her entire body pulsing, her eyes stinging, overwhelmed by how good it felt, to have that full, physical connection, the warm heat of him filling her... 

He sank a bit lower, and they rolled a little onto their sides, his right arm wrapping around her, his hand on her ass, holding her to him as he pushed in deep… 

“Kiss me,” she said, her lips already on his jaw, traveling over his face to find him, and he made a deep sound of pleasure as she circled her hips, rocking against him… 

His hand left her ass to move up to her face, smoothing back her hair, holding her head as he kissed her deeply, and he was barely moving inside her anymore, just focusing on the kiss, and then he slipped out, moving down her body as she rolled onto her back again. He took her nipple into his mouth, his right hand holding her breast, covering her words as he kissed and sucked on her, pulling moans from her lips, and when he moved back up to slip inside, filling her again, it was like a hair-trigger release, almost instantaneous… 

She fluttered and spasmed around him, almost crying, as he tried to hold steady, deep inside, unmoving even as he whimpered a little from the feel of her quivering around him, letting her ride it out, until she was done, her entire body going limp… 

“_Bucky_,” she whispered, opening her eyes, and she was a puddle, a boneless pool… 

She could see the love in his eyes, and he didn’t look away, didn’t blink, as he stroked her three more times, slowly, and on the last one, finally shutting his eyes, he made such a beautiful sound as he surged and spilled inside her that she couldn’t stop the words: 

“_I love you_… _I love you_…” 

She had her hands on his face, wiping the tears with her thumbs, and he dropped his mouth to her, panting, trying to kiss her, but he couldn’t make his lips work… 

She said it again— “_I love you_—” as his cheek dropped to her chest, his hips pulling back to rest on the mattress between her legs, as he slipped out of her body, and then one more time, a whisper… “_I love you_…” 

She could tell he was dazed, wrung out, and she just petted his head as he lay there, recovering, and then finally, after a long few minutes of floating, coming back to Earth, he swallowed and said it back: 

“I love you too, sweetheart.” 

* * *

“What are we gonna do?” he said a little later, as they were just dozing there, on the bed, both of them still naked. He’d moved off her body but still had his head resting on her midriff so she could keep petting him. 

“About what?” she said. 

“About… life,” he said. 

“Oh, just the easy questions today, huh?” she teased, and she could feel him smile against her skin, and then he turned his head to move up and kiss her, right between her breasts. 

“What do you _wanna_ do,” she said, and then tried to define the question a little better: “If you could do anything— if we didn’t have to worry about any limitations, any bullshit, any… whatever. What would you want to do.” 

He rolled off of her, lay back... took the time to really think about it, and she didn’t push him for an answer. It was like that a lot, when they talked about stuff. Sometimes, after a long silence, he’d actually reply— long after she’d expected any kind of response. Other times, she could tell he had to put it on the back-burner, and it’d simmer there for days, and then out of nowhere she’d get an answer to something… 

It only took him a few minutes this time. 

“I just wanna live,” he said. “Live a normal life. With you.” He sighed and then added, “Can I even ask for that? Like… do I deserve it? I don’t know…” 

“Course you deserve it,” she said. “Everyone deserves a normal life, if they want it… but especially you. You’ve paid your dues for like… forever. And the rest of it? Do you even have to ask?” She was talking about his having any doubt that she’d want to be with him, for the rest of their lives… 

He looked up at her, questioning, and she bit her lip and then released it, feeling warm and soft and very happy… “You’re in my bones…” 

He gave her another lazy smile, and then slid back up her body so he could kiss her on the mouth, and when it got a little heated, she almost thought he was gonna go for a second round, but his growling stomach kept interrupting them, until finally she was laughing and pushing him off of her, saying, “Okay, okay… we better feed the beast…” 

His appetite had finally returned— with a vengeance. Like Steve, his body seemed to want mass quantities of carbs, at frequent intervals, and she was only too happy to indulge him. It was another sign of healing. 

They were sliding out of bed, pulling some of their clothes back on, and he said, “What’s in the envelope?” 

“Huh?” she said, and then glanced to the bedside table. “Oh yeah— I forgot. Natasha gave it to me. Something from May. Or from Coulson, really. I guess.” 

“You gonna open it?” he said. 

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, standing to pull up her underpants. “Hold your horses.” She bent down to grab her T-shirt, and threw it on, not bothering with her bra, and then sat back down on the bed and grabbed the envelope. Slipped her thumb under the edge of the flap and ripped across to break the seal. There was a thick stack of paperwork inside. Legalese-looking stuff, and she frowned at it as she skimmed the page on top. 

“Holy shit,” she breathed. 

“What is it?” he said, leaning over to see. He kissed her bare shoulder, where the wide neck of the T-shirt had fallen aside. 

“I think it’s a— a deed.” 

“To what?” 

“I mean, maybe I’m misunderstanding, but…” 

“But what?” 

“I think it’s for an island.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)  



	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~**The End**~~

_Three Years Later_… 

_South Pacific Ocean_

  


“So I’m guessin’ you’re comin’ in for the wedding…” 

Steve Rogers had just taken a long swig of ice-cold beer, and he spilled a little, the liquid jostling out of the squat-necked bottle as the boat bumped up, riding a swell. It was a gorgeous summer day— middle of February, the air warm and humid— and he could taste the hint of salt on his lips as he swallowed down the mouthful of beer. 

“Yup,” he said, answering the skipper, who was standing beside him, at the wheel. 

Steve had briefly taken over, earlier— a little nervous, having never steered a motorboat before, and the water wasn’t exactly smooth— but he’d done fine, holding it steady, while the other man had rummaged into the cooler under the leaning post, to get out a couple of beers for his passengers. 

It was a mid-size, single-engine recreational trawler, chartered out of Fiji, all the arrangements having been made for them in advance; he and Nat had boarded the boat just before noon, after a three-hour flight out of Aukland earlier that morning. They’d had to detour there the night before, so Nat could attend to a last-minute job at a place called the Ding Dong Lounge. With that business concluded, they were now officially off the grid— on vacation— for the next three weeks. 

The man currently chatting his ear off— the captain— was a forty-something bronze-skinned Kiwi transplant named Leef. He seemed to have no idea who Steve was— or if he did, he wasn’t letting on— but he hadn’t stopped talking to him since they’d set foot on his boat. 

He’d treated Steve to his entire life story: his birth in Christchurch, a happier-than-average childhood, his troubled adolescence, his string of failed love affairs— the man was a blank; the story had gotten that personal— and ending with his self-employment in the chartered-boat business, which was where he’d found his passion. He made runs all around the archipelago, including a private ferry-service for the enigmatic owners of the little uncharted island to which they were currently headed, far to the southeast. 

Nat had escaped the seemingly endless monologue, fleeing to the bow’s forward lounge seating with her own bottle of beer. She was likely listening to every word of it— never really able to turn that part of herself off— but preferred not to actively engage in unnecessary socializing in the first few hours of her well-deserved holiday. 

She was in a bright green bikini top, her shoulders bare to the sun, and had a silky, flowered sarong tied around her waist, the fabric scattered with shades of peach and honey. A white straw sun-hat covered her fiery hair, its brim having a circumference larger than Steve’s shield. Her pale skin, which she’d slathered generously with SPF-one-billion, was glistening in the warm, tropical air. 

Steve had never seen her look so pretty, and he would’ve preferred to be sitting with her, but standing back to admire the view wasn’t so bad either. The sarong was almost sexier than if she’d just been in the matching green bottoms he knew she had on underneath; he kept getting little peeks of her shapely, muscular thighs… 

He could see her profile, and she smiled, just a little, without looking back, and Steve knew that she was aware of his gaze, and it stirred something inside of him… 

It’d been a long time coming, this thing they were playing with, and maybe… 

Maybe. 

Leef was still chatting, and Steve didn’t really mind. The man was a friendly enough fella, and Steve was in a supremely good mood. The fresh, sea-scented breeze combing through his honey-blond hair felt just right; he was with the most beautiful and fascinating woman currently alive on the planet; and he was on his way to see his two best friends, after six long months of minimal contact. 

There was now limited cellular service on the island they were headed to, but in the preceding year, after the devastation caused by Cyclone Winston, the entire region had been a mess, and most of the communications networks had been destroyed along with the rest of the infrastructure. 

Steve had had to make do with only sporadic updates via satellite phone, while his friends, like all the islanders in the area, had done the hard work of rebuilding. Luckily for them, they had access to a sizable fortune, spread across several offshore accounts that Coulson had set up for them before his death, and which had been quietly accumulating wealth in the years leading up to Bucky’s liberation... 

They’d worked tirelessly to rebuild— all but one of the twenty-four beachside cabins, and most of the other structures that’d been in place at the time they’d taken possession of the land, had been destroyed. They’d tried to stay positive: to see it as an opportunity to reconstruct the exclusive, ultra-private resort to their own specifications, and they’d achieved it. 

Now, just under a year later, they were hosting a wedding… 

“Here for the groom, or the groom?” joked the captain, and Steve hesitated, not sure if the guy was being an asshole or not, but then the man went on to say, “Brought ‘em over yesterday— nice couple.” 

“That they are,” said Steve, relaxing again. 

They could see the dot of the island now in the distance. Steve had been there before— many times, in fact, before the cyclone tore it up— but this was Nat’s first visit. 

Leef himself was new to this gig; the guy that Steve had ridden over with, on all his previous visits, had been hit hard by the cyclone— had been forced to liquidate his business assets and close down— so Leef wasn’t aware that his passengers already understood the protocol. He began to lay it out for them— part of a standard spiel— as they drew close to their destination: 

“You gonna need to check in through the main gate right after you disembark, yeah? Owner-lady is real particular about greetin’ everybody personally. I’ll be radio’n in to her soon, let her know you’re comin’. She’ll be wantin’ to shake your hands, soon as you arrive.” 

“Yup,” said Steve. “We’re aware.” He took another drink of his beer and then smiled. “We’re old friends.” 

* * *

They never made it as far as the gate-house; by the time they were off the boat and dividing up the luggage at the end of the dock, Darcy was already coming toward them, running down the wooden steps to the dock, squealing in excitement. 

She was barefoot, dressed in a plum-colored string-bikini, with just a simple, wispy white coverup thrown haphazardly over her shoulders. Her hair had been tied up in messy bun, but it came loose as she ran down the steps, hanging down almost to her waist. 

“Oh my God!” she was shrieking. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here!” 

Her excitement was infectious, and Steve dropped the bags he’d started to heft, so he could pull her into a big hug as she dove into his body like a battering ram. He swung her around a little, laughing, while Nat stood by, a genuine grin on her face. 

“Hey, you,” he said, as he squeezed her, and then he stepped back, his big arms holding her apart from him so he could take her in, his face beaming with a big smile. “You’re lookin’ good.” 

“I _feel_ good,” she said. “God, it’s been too long.” She moved in for one more hug, this one not as aggressive, but longer-lasting, and Steve shut his eyes, letting himself enjoy the moment, and then he leaned down to give her a kiss on the the crown of her head. 

When she finally released him, she turned her attention to Nat, and said, “Holy cow, woman. Long time no see.” She held out her arms. “You’re gettin’ one too, so don’t even try to get out of it.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Nat, and she gave Darcy a friendly hug, saying, "Clint sends his love— said 'thank you' for the kava," and then she stood back, looking around. “So this is where you guys have been hiding out, huh? Not too shabby…” 

Darcy grinned, proud of what they’d built— the new resort was simple but beautiful; they’d had their builders put up a dozen new beachside cabins, a open-air bar, and a house for themselves, set back from the shore, but most of the island was now left to nature, which, though free, was much slower to rebuild. They rented the vacation cabins to a very select clientele— many of them powered people, known to the Avengers, who sought the kind of privacy that only a place like theirs could offer. 

“Did you bring it?” said Darcy, looking back to Steve. 

“Yup,” he said. “Got it right here.” He passed her a long, padded parcel, wrapped up in brown mailing paper and about a pound of clear strapping tape. “Said he’s gonna start charging, if you break another one.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” said Darcy. The package was a replacement swimming-fin-attachment for Bucky’s prosthetic system, courtesy of Mr. Stark. They’d broken the last one when, in a frenzy to rip each other’s suits off after splashing up onto the beach, he’d detached the fin and let it fall to the sand, and then at some point Bucky had rolled on top of it, snapping the fin in half… 

“You gonna join us for a drink, Mr. Leef?” called Darcy to the skipper, who’d finished helping the passengers with their luggage, and was heading back to the boat. 

“Yeah, nah,” he called back. “Still got some other charters to do before I can kick back… Maybe next time, eh?” 

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” she called, and then waved goodbye to the man. 

“Come on,” she said, to her friends. “Bucky’s dying to see you…” 

* * *

“Yeah,” said Steve, speaking into the burner phone he held to his face, his other hand curling around the cool glass of the extra-large, extra-strong Bloody Mary sitting in front of him at the bar. Bucky had put in all the garnishes: pickle spears, green olives, celery, lemon wedges… even a trio of cocktail shrimp on a long skewer. There was a cold, amber-toned beer chaser in a pint glass, waiting next to it. 

“I hope you didn’t use the good vodka for that,” said Natasha quietly, lifting her eyebrows in disapproval of the cocktail, which was more meal than beverage. 

Bucky just laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. He was standing behind the open-air bar, shirtless, his standard non-cosmetic prosthesis in full view. “Get you somethin’?” he asked Natasha. 

“Just another water,” she said. “Sun’s hot.” 

“You got it,” he said, bending down to get a bottled water out of the fridge under the bar. He handed it over to her and she accepted it, and then she nodded toward Steve, keeping her voice down so the person on the other end of the line wouldn’t hear. 

“Don’t let him talk too long,” she said to Bucky. “Dummy was meant to call her last night, but he forgot. And now look at him: his frown’s already coming back.” 

“I’ll handle it,” he said, not missing the way the woman's eyes had lingered for a micro-second on Steve's bare upper body. He watched as she headed back down to the beach, where he could see Sam and his fiancé trying to catch the waves with a couple of bright blue boogie-boards. He could hear their laughter drifting up on the breeze… 

Steve was still talking to May. “Yeah,” he said again. He looked up to Bucky, who was giving him the silent, universal hand-signal for ‘_hang up the phone_,’ and he followed it up with a funny, bug-eyed face that almost made Steve break out in a laugh. 

“Uh huh,” he said again, trying to maintain his composure, and then, “I’ll tell them if I see them. Yeah. I promise. Look, I gotta go... Okay. Good to talk to you, May.” 

He pulled the phone away from his face and clicked it off, and then handed it over to Bucky, who took it in his prosthetic hand and crushed it wordlessly, and then pulled out a trash can and dumped the pieces inside. 

Even May didn’t know exactly where they were, and they wanted to keep it that way; the documents she’d given them three years ago had had the name and coordinates withheld, by design: to be disclosed only to the legal owners, upon their formal assumption of the property… 

Bucky picked up his own drink— a Fijian beer in a brown bottle with a white turtle design on it— and clinked it into Steve’s raised cocktail glass. 

“So,” said Bucky, now that they were finally alone, and he raised a single eyebrow, and nothing more needed to be said; Steve knew, just from that one word, and the way he’d said it, that Bucky had sized up the situation: knew exactly how bad Steve had it for the woman down on the beach below… 

* * *

May hung up the phone after the line cut out, and turned to Coulson, who was sitting next to her on a cushioned bench seat, in the private cabin aboard the _Zephyr_. 

“What’d he say,” said Coulson. “Are they all right?” 

“They’re fine,” said May. “Happy. They’re on vacation.” 

Phil nodded. “Say no more,” he said; even though he didn’t remember doing it, he believed May when she’d told him how he’d arranged a new life for them, hidden even from SHIELD. 

Whatever deeply-classified and likely unsavory procedure Phil had undergone to come back from a spear through the heart— even May didn’t know all the details; had thought him truly dead for nearly a month in the aftermath of New York— it’d left him permanently altered. He’d lost some memories, and it’d done something to their bond-gift, dampening their reciprocal sharing of thoughts. He could no longer sense her deception. 

“Maybe we should do that some time,” she said, and then she pushed out the trigger words— hating her role in it, but trusting Fury: trusting that without those subliminal prompts, maintaining the psychological shields they’d implanted, his psyche could crumble under the burden of whatever had been done to him. 

“We could go to Tahiti,” she said, keeping her voice casual. 

“I went there once,” he said, after a pause, his eyes unfocused for a second. “Tahiti,” he clarified, and then he recited his part, right on cue: “It’s a magical place.” 

She almost teared up— it never got easier— but resisted, knowing he’d notice, and then she’d be forced to tell more lies. She gave him a soft smile instead, her hand squeezing his, where it rested on his thigh. “That’s what I hear.” 

* * *

“Who’s that?” said Steve, tilting his head toward Darcy, who was standing halfway down to the beach, talking to a middle-aged man with skin the color of caramel, and a gut that suggested a healthy appetite. He was wearing big blue swimming trunks with pineapples all over them, and matching blue flip-flops. 

“Officiant, I guess,” said Bucky, draining the last of his beer. “Came in yesterday, with Sam and Cal. Haven’t had a chance to meet him yet, but Darcy says he’s all right.” 

“You hear from Thor?” said Steve. He’d finished his Bloody Mary, and was munching on the last of the garnishes. 

“They’re still on baby-watch, last I heard,” said Bucky. “Darcy said Jane’s losin’ her mind. Thor came down couple days ago, dropped off a barrel of Asgardian ale…” 

“Really,” said Steve, perking up. 

“Yep,” said Bucky, and he glanced around, looking for Darcy. She’d vanished from the beach, and the hefty guy was slowly heading up the sand alone, toward the bar. “You want one?” 

“You know it,” said Steve, and grinned as his friend went over to a line of beer taps and pulled two foamy pints, plunking them down, one by one, on the bar. 

“_Sláinte_,” said Steve, and they clinked their glasses together, and Bucky almost jumped out of his skin when Darcy came up right behind him, out of nowhere, laying her hand on his bare back. 

“I know what that is,” she said, and then looked sternly at Steve. “Do _not_ let him get drunk. The caterers are coming bright and early tomorrow; I can’t have him hungover. He was completely useless for a frickin’ week, last time…” 

“God, that was a good time, though,” said Steve, ruefully. 

“Yeah, it really was, wasn’t it,” said Darcy, giggling in spite of herself, and then she poked Bucky gently in the tummy with her index finger. “Hey. Can I borrow you for sec? Before you get into that beer?” 

“Sure thing, doll. What’cha need?” 

“Need your help with something,” she said, and turned, heading toward the rear of the bar, where they kept the big bench freezers and the generators and the walk-in storage. 

“Hold down the fort for a minute?” asked Bucky as he wiped his hand on a bar-rag. 

“Sure, pal,” said Steve, standing up. He went around to the side of the bar and lifted up on the flip-up section of the countertop, letting himself behind the bar so he could take Bucky’s place. 

“Don't let anyone else drink that ale,” warned Bucky, and then he turned around to catch up to Darcy. 

She was waiting for him in the storage room, her back to him, looking up to a high shelf. She’d gotten rid of the cover-up, so she was just standing there in the plum-colored two-piece, all of her luscious, creamy curves on display, her ass cheeks hanging half-out of the bikini bottoms. 

“Need me to reach somethin’ for you?” 

“Nope,” she said, turning around. “Shut the door, cowboy.” 

“You got somethin’ secret to tell me?” he joked, but he did what she said, turning to push the door shut. 

“Nope,” she said again, and she was stepping toward him now, in the cramped little room, surrounded by industrial-sized containers of pickles and tomato juice, boxes of napkins and coasters and cocktail stirrers, and all other manner of supplies for the bar they’d built together, and he started to chuckle because she was _prowling_, her eyes roving up and down his body, her lower lip caught under her teeth, and he knew he was in for it… 

“Just got a burning need to shamelessly ravish your body,” she said, “before that ale out there gets the better of you.” 

He chuckled again, looking down at her as she reached him, her hands pressing flat against his bare chest. He could see the first few words of her soulmark, peeking out of the edge of the little triangle of stretch-fabric covering her tit. 

“You suggestin’ somethin’ derogatory about my manhood?” 

“Let’s just say that when I told Steve you were ‘useless for a week,’ I wasn’t just talking about helping with the housework,” she said. 

He made a face of pretend-shock at her, making her giggle again, and he bloomed inside, from how happy it made him feel… every smile, every laugh… he never got tired of it. Would never take it for granted, the life they’d been able to build here… 

“Well, we can’t have that,” he said, his voice getting lower, almost a purr. “Had no idea I’d caused any kind of… deficit.” 

“Uh huh,” she said. “Shut up and untie me.” 

He was running his hands up and down her bare arms, and when he got back up to her shoulders, he kept going, reaching behind her neck to slowly undo the little bow holding her bikini-top on. He purposely took his time, dragging it out, just to tease her, and once he’d gotten it undone, he let the fabric fall down on its own, first one and then the other little triangle falling away as he leaned down to kiss her neck, his hands moving down to cup her bare breasts, running his thumbs over her nipples, taking care with his metal hand… 

There was a supply table behind him, covered in crap, and he let go of her long enough to reach behind himself, shove the stuff out of the way so he could lean his ass back on it, pulling her toward him as he bumped back into it and sat down. His face was now at the right level to kiss and suck on her breasts, and she slotted herself between his legs, her hands going into the soft, short waves of his hair… she could smell the salt in it, and it smelled like everything that made her happy... 

He was swirling his tongue around the peak of her left nipple, the one with her words, and then he latched his mouth around the whole thing, just the way she liked, his hand pushing the heavy weight of her breast up, so he could hold her steady while he sucked on it, knowing he was making her wet down below, knowing everything about her body— all her sounds, her movements… all the ways to make her feel good… 

He pulled on her just slightly with his teeth, tugging a little whimper from her throat, and then he let go, moving his thumb back up to touch her again, the little nub now hard and swollen and very, very red… 

“You know,” he said, as he watched his thumb moving in circles, “We coulda just gone up to the house; Stevie’s perfectly capable of tendin’ bar for an hour…” 

“An hour, huh?” she said, and then she was reaching into his swimming trunks, stroking him, pulling on him, loving the way his face looked as he let his eyes fall shut, his lips parting to breathe… he was pushing himself into her hand, wanting it just as much… 

“Tempting,” she said, and she leaned in to kiss him, wet and breathy, while she worked him, and his hands were going to her hips now, finding the matching ties on each side of the bikini bottoms: a couple good tugs on each of their ends pulled the bows loose, and the bottoms fell away from her body, leaving her exposed… 

“Like I’m gonna stop now,” she said, and she was trying to climb up, pulling her hands out of his trunks so she could push them down his hips, and he was scooting back more on the table, trying to make room for her, and boxes and cartons of things were starting to fall off the end, making a mess on the floor, but they didn’t care… 

It was something about having guests, and the festivity of the occasion— everyone in good spirits— giving her this need to have him immediately, and just like this: sneaky-deaky, a little naughty… it was fun… 

If they’d been alone, they would have simply made love right on the beach, out in the open, or there at the bar, if they hadn’t felt like going all the way up to the house. Bucky’d had her just about everywhere on the island— like they’d marked the land itself… 

He was dragging his thumb down the warm, wet cut of her body, spreading her open, his lips on her neck, and she was rocking against him, part of her wanting to slide right onto him, and another part wanting to delay it, stretch it out… savor the longing... 

"_Baby,_" she whispered... 

_God_ he made her feel good… 

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he said, when he could feel she was ready for him, and his thumb left her body so he could grab onto himself, hold himself steady while she lifted up and fitted herself around the end of him, going up and down a few times, shallowly, until she could sink down fully, both of them sighing in satisfaction as he filled her all the way up. 

He kissed her skin, his lips tracing the contours of her collarbones as he pulsed up into her, his hands on her waist as she used the muscles of her ass to move on him: lifting and clenching... rocking in his lap… 

“Need more,” she said, almost sounding frustrated, as she tried to adjust her position— to go deeper, harder… “Need…” 

“What, sweetheart,” he whispered, tilting his head up to capture her lips, and then he released them to ask again… “What do you need…” 

“Need you to—” She exhaled, roughly… 

“You need me to give it to you?” he said, and he smiled when her walls tightened around him, just from the question… 

It was something she said sometimes, when she was especially hungry for him— ‘_Give it to me_’— and it was so cheesy, but he loved it… loved the way it made him feel so wanted— so good at giving her what she needed— and he was already sliding off the table, picking her up, his hand cupping her bare ass, holding her against him… 

“Yeah,” she said, and he smiled again, because he could already hear how her breathing had changed, getting excited… 

“_Give it to me_,” she said, whispering in his ear… “_Give it to me good, Bucky Barnes_…” 

* * *

Steve was standing behind the bar when the big-bellied man— the officiant— walked up and took a seat. 

“You the owner?” said the man. He had trim, dark hair, starting to go grey at the sides, and a friendly, open face. 

“Naw,” said Steve. “Just fillin’ in. I’m the best man. Well, one of them,” he said, and then he held out his hand. “I’m Steve.” 

“Drew,” said the man, shaking his hand. “Drew Koroi. Nice to meet you.” 

“What can I get you?” said Steve. 

“Beer’s fine. Whatever you got on tap.” 

“Sure thing,” said Steve, and he got out a clean pint glass and went over to pull the beer, being careful to avoid the Asgardian barrel. He was a little sloppy— too much foam on top— but the guy didn’t seem to mind. 

He’d just set the pint down, when he heard the sound of something big banging into the closed door of the storage room, in the back. “There you go,” he said, pointedly ignoring the noise, and then he held up his own glass. “Cheers.” 

The guy lifted his beer, responding to the toast, and then took a big long drink of it, making an _ahhhh_ sound right after he swallowed, and put the glass back down on the bar. “That hits the spot.” 

There was the sound of another heavy thump, and then the crash of something breaking. Two more loud thumps. Koroi raised his eyebrows and said, “Some kinda problem back there?” 

Steve grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Eh, no… not a problem.” 

There was another terrific crash, like the sound of a shelf falling over, dumping all of its contents on the floor. 

The guy laughed a little. “You sure about that?” 

“Ah, it’s just the owners,” said Steve. 

“What, they don’t get along? Lady seemed like a nice enough—” 

“She is, she is,” said Steve, and he was almost blushing. “It’s uh… well, you know. They’re, uh… soulmates.” 

It took him a few seconds, but then the guy said, “Ah, I see,” finally catching on. There was a pause, both of them maybe a little embarrassed, but then he said, “Well, that’s lovely, though, innit?” He sighed, a little far away for a moment. “I do remember those days…” 

He took another long drink of beer and swallowed. “Lost my wife seven years ago.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Steve, putting down his glass. “I, uh… I know how tough that is.” 

The man looked up at him and said, “You?” 

“Yeah,” said Steve. “Lost someone… comin’ up— comin’ up on a year now.” 

There was another loud thump, like a body being slammed into the storage-room door, and then the muffled sound of a shriek, followed by laughter, and then a relentless stream of distinctly rhythmic vocalizations in two different registers… 

The men chuckled a little as they worked on their beers, unable to pretend they couldn’t hear what was going on. 

“Well anyway,” said the man. “It’s true what they say, I guess: life goes on.” 

“Yeah,” said Steve, and he felt a kind of peace as he said it, like he actually believed it— because the evidence was there, all around him: life, continuing on… 

It was there in the strength of his found family, both here and afar… 

In the memory of old loves, lost but ever honored… 

In the laughter on the waves below: a choice to love again, ready to be celebrated… 

In the raw and lusty sounds of his friends, carried bare on the air behind him… 

And maybe, just maybe, there was even a chance for him: the man who’d woken up, and thought he'd lost everything… 

He looked down to the beach, where he could see Natasha in the distance, playing at the edge of the water, laughing as she watched Sam and his fella, the sunlight sparkling on the crystal-blue ocean. 

It was almost like she’d felt him looking, because she turned, looked back up toward the bar, shielding her eyes from the sun. She was too far away for him to see her expression, but somehow he knew that she was smiling, and that the smile was just for him... that she'd found him. 

And maybe they all needed that reminder, from time to time: that life could do that— could turn around and give you another chance…the choice to forge a brand new path… spin a new Fate. 

Natasha was coming up the beach now, in her big white hat: a vision in the sun— like a painting, come alive— and Steve took in a shuddering breath, ready to do it: ready to take that spin… 

Koroi glanced over, to see who Steve was staring at with such singular attention; smiled knowingly, when he saw the pretty lady coming toward them, up the beach. 

“That your girl, then?” he said. 

“Yeah,” said Steve, automatically, and then he smiled, because it was true. 

“She is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my Tumblr](https://sarahbeniel.tumblr.com)   



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